


SEVEN SHADOWS

by weasleyss



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: 19th Century, Action/Adventure, Angst, Animal Death, Bandits & Outlaws, Canon-Typical Violence, Cowboys, Drunken Flirting, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gaming, Gangs, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Kidnapping, Outlaws, Playstation, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, Trust Issues, Wild West, rockstargames, xbox
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 35,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22144606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weasleyss/pseuds/weasleyss
Summary: Polly Barrett was born to Lord and Lady Barrett and grew up on her family estate north of London, spending her days exploring the vast family library and studying every book she could- wanting to thrive in research. Lord and Lady Barrett disagreed. They sent Polly to boarding school, hoping her to learn the ways of the court and how to please her husband. But Polly would not stand for it.As a last resort, Lord Barrett enlisted the help of an old colleague, Josiah Trelawney, who had connections to the USA. Lord and Lady Barrett forced Polly into a stagecoach, travelling down to Lemoyne to meet with Catherine Braithwaite and her potential suitor sons. With a marriage confirmed, the Barrett family travel to Saint Denis.But they never make it.Set upon by the Wild Bunch, one of the most notorious gangs plaguing America, Lord and Lady Barrett are murdered at Polly's feet. The cool metal ring of a revolver held against her temple, Polly waits with baited breath for her life to end.But it doesn't.Because the leader of the gang, Butch Cassidy, discovers Polly's books filled with research and realises a foreign young woman is the last person the Pinkertons would suspect of working for a gang...
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Original Female Character(s), Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 51
Kudos: 63





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> This story is primarily written and formatted for Wattpad, where I am most active.

**_ NOTE | Only the Prologue is written in this format lol _ **

**_November 18th_ **

**__ **

I bought this new journal, after the last one got destroyed in that fire all those months ago, whenever it was.

Haven't written or drawn much in the past few months, but I was missing it more than I thought I would, and finally near a store, so here I am, I guess.

After all that business up North and the fire, we spent a few months in the wilderness, travelling down from the Northern Grizzlies, stuck mostly in the western foothills of the mountains during the worst of the winter. Food was easy to find and life was good. Dutch had a lead for some land and we were going to buy, but the land did not match to his criteria, or he got spooked we were being watched by the law and that somebody knew who he was, and we never bought it and we are wandering still.

**_December 14th_ **

We picked up a couple of new folk in the grizzlies. Jenny, a sweet young girl we met abandoned on the roadside, and Micah- an outlaw Dutch met in a bar someplace. Dutch seems very taken with Micah, who is pretty hot-headed, argumentative and full of himself. Hosea and I are less sure. Guess we shall see.

Eventually, we came out of the wilderness and are now holed up outside of Blackwater, although sometimes I stay in town, hunting for opportunities. I might be onto something. We got plenty of money, and the trail we took was so torturous and slow nobody could have followed us south and east, or figured out where we was heading.

We was thinking about California, but then Dutch and Hosea brought us down to Blackwater. Blackwater has apparently grown a whole lot since any of them was last here- I was expecting little more than a trading post. But this place is growing fast and it's almost a small city. The town seems to be riddled with corruption, but there's certainly plenty of money here.

_**January 25th** _

Hosea and I met a woman in the saloon. She looked tired, and worn out but she was dressed like a high class lady- and she was alone and drunk. Hosea was curious and got talking to her and she confirmed there was a lot of money in the town, through corrupt businessmen. She was lucky that she let spill to us, anyone else and she would have been arrested. 

It's good to be sleeping in a bed from time to time and living a more civilised life after so long under canvas, but I do not particularly like being this near a town. We are living here, camping outside town mostly, hidden in plain sight, I guess. Life seems pretty easy.

_**February 19th** _

Abigail and Marston keep arguing. I wonder why exactly he came back. He cannot seem to decide if he wants to be a father to that boy of his or not. This arguing is exhausting.

I saw the woman in the saloon again. She talked about a man who sounded like Trelawney, but we haven't seen him for many months. It is possible. She's from England as well.

**_March 9th_ **

Hosea and I are onto something. Something pretty big- might be a lot of cash coming in to do with a real estate scam. Hosea thinks he may have discovered. I am not sure yet. The perfect crime, we think- one where we rob crooks. We are being real careful. It's fun working with Hosea again. The man is an artist of nonsense.

Even if nothing comes of it, we are having an amusing enough time. It's good to be running scams again. Hosea is a born huckster. He is getting anxious, worried that by lingering in town, we are going to bring undue attention on ourselves. Word is that we're not the only gang loitering around Blackwater...

Plan is to flee west into the desert country someplace if we can.

_**April 29th** _

Micah and Dutch are planning to rob the ferry in town. They think it's laden with riches- cash coming in for the banks, coming in by boat. They think it's laden with riches- cash coming in for the banks, coming in by boat. For once, I am not getting involved in the job.

Hosea and I are too taken up with our business, which I believe could go very well and Dutch seems confident that with the group assembled, all will be okay. Plan is for them to carry out the job, then flee into the wilderness out to the West. The next day, Hosea and I carry out our scam and join them.

Dutch seems happy and excited. He's talking again about California, but he's also talking about a lot of other places.

_**May 21st** _

We have been running for weeks, I mean running more than usual. The job they was pulling in Blackwater, robbing that ferry, it turned into a disaster. Young Jenny got killed, poor thing, while Sean and Mac both got arrested or killed. Nobody seems sure which. Dutch shot a girl, I am not sure if by accident or design, and seems like it might have been a set up. We took to the hills in an almighty scramble, leaving money and most of our things behind.

_Young Jack is gone. He got scared in camp and ran, none of us knew where he went. Abigail was kicking and screaming as we tried to get her to leave. Marston almost went back into Blackwater to look for him but he got shot in the arm and had to go. Abigail is a mess. This might just be the thing to push us over the edge. We don't even know if the poor boy is alive._

𝐀/𝐍

**_Most of this is taken directly from Arthur's journal. Any paragraph that mentions 'the woman' or Jack Marston is my own words. This is important for background because next chapter, we're jumping straight into the action._ **


	2. INFERNAL PLACE

𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘

When Polly heard the first gunshot, it barely even registered with her. She was pulled up close to her desk at the time, silver fountain pen scratching furiously against a sheet of paper. Her ears pricked up at the distant crack of a bullet, but her eyes never left the words she was scribbling down. 

Eventually, she stood up, pushing her wooden chair backwards with her legs. Her hair was pulled back neatly in an intricate updo, yet as Polly became more flustered as the hours went along, locks of hair were falling in front of her face which she blew away irritably. In front of her, spread out, were two neatly sorted piles of paper. Letters, documents and more were pushed clearly to two opposite ends of the desk, Polly not allowing a chance of them becoming mixed up.

Then, the second gunshot. This time, Polly's head turned towards the sound for a mere moment but quickly returned her attention to the work in front of her. Pen still gripped tightly in hand, she leant forwards, signing the name _Lilliana Mendax_ in the bottom corner of the document. Her _false_ name.

Polly let her pen clatter onto the desk, beginning to fan her face with her hands. She was starting to become irritated being trapped in her dress, so moved backwards towards the already cracked open window of her office.

Then she heard the close rumble of an explosion, followed by violent yelling. She froze in place, her expression tightening in confusion. Without realising, her hand slowly crept forwards and her fingers grasped the nozzle of her oil lamp, twisting it slowly and allowing the flame to die so her office was plunged into darkness.

Her heartbeat began to climb into her throat, making her feel slightly sick as she pulled herself in close the the edge of the window. The yelling had turned into screaming, and Polly could only watch in horror as the streets below her filled with a cascade of gunfire and corpses.

 _It was a massacre_.

She pulled back from the window, feeling vulnerable from the distant fires she was convinced were illuminating her figure as a target. Suddenly, her office felt like a prison. The books scattered everywhere making the room feel stuffy and claustrophobic. 

Polly only allowed herself to feel helpless for a moment before her gaze settled on the papers on her desk. The sound of slaughter outside made her physically shake. She fumbled over her own feet trying to decide her next move. Locking the door was one option, but she didn't know what to do once the fighting had finished. She knew the Pinkerton's would be straight up to her office, and once again her thoughts returned to the papers sat vulnerable on her desk.

As vile as she knew it was, Polly realised that this could be her _one_ chance to escape. To get out of Blackwater. They would assume her to be dead in the streets. She could vanish, flee the country... possibly go home.

She stopped her own inner thoughts before she got carried away, placing her head into her hands and whispering softly to herself. The noise of never ending gunfire registered deep in her mind, yet the sound of her own heartbeat was louder. More prominent. She didn't know why, but her gaze was drawn to one particular area of the room. A large, dark blood stain that was permanently embedded into the wooden floor.

And she knew exactly what she had to do.

Her body moved fast, feet carrying her across the room. She grasped hold of her fire poker, withdrawing it from it's rack like unsheathing a great longsword. Her skirts cushioned her fall to her knees as she messily slammed the end of the fire poker into the small gap between floorboards. Knowing the stakes, the massacre outside, almost made her cry in desperation as she willed herself to hurry up. To stop being so messy with her movements. 

With one end of the fire poker under the floorboards, she pushed down with a small grunt on the other end, gasping when the wood cracked away and separated from the floor. She quickly set the fire poker down on the floor, turning to grasp helplessly at the papers on her desk. It didn't matter if her work was separated to her now. Ten minutes ago, it was the thing that would save her life. Now, she had a chance to escape.

When she was sure that all the incriminating documents had been stuffed under the floor, she grabbed the plank tightly and pushed it back into place. She pressed her weight onto the plank until she was satisfied that it sat flat. Then, she pushed herself onto her feet.

Polly returned the fire poker to its place in the stand before leaning forwards and reaching under the lip of the fireplace. She bit her lip as she fumbled around for a moment, but finally felt cold and ever so slightly rusted metal under her fingers. Her hand moved backwards, pulling out the revolver from it's hiding place. 

When pushing open the cylinder, Polly winced at the resistance the old gun was giving her. She could count on one hand the amount of times she'd had to fire a gun, and the four bullets remaining in their chambers that had lost their shine only highlighted her inexperience.

When she returned to the window, lifting her skirts to fasten the revolver- safety on- she witnessed the massacre becoming even more violent. The gunfire was deafening, and Polly couldn't see for the life of her who was fighting who. _And the bodies_. _Oh the bodies_.

Polly marched towards the door, grasping a small satchel from her coat stand and throwing it over her head. She didn't dare stop to grab food, or _possessions_ or anything. Her first port of call would be to run, in what direction she did not know. Perhaps down through New Austin, perhaps north-east through New Hanover. She didn't care.

She gathered herself together, pulling the door open and allowing it to click shut behind her. For a moment, she debated over locking the door. Then, she decided that there was no time to overthink such trivial things.

When she spun around, taking in the cold darkness of the hallway that echoed the death from outside, she felt intimidated by the silence. Her footsteps were loud, and she winced every time she made contact with the ground. The bottom of her skirts brushed across the floor, emitting a hissing noise as they scratched against the wood. Such an ambient noise should have meant nothing, but it was almost deafening to Polly.

The screams from outside showed no signs of retiring. Polly's heartbeat began to synchronise with the gunfire. As she began to panic more, she began to breath heavier. Her gasps beginning to transform into overwhelmed sobs. Then, she was stumbling over her own feet. The beautiful red dress that once made enemies underestimate her was now making her stand out. 

She pushed open the door that lead to the lower roof, closing her eyes tightly as she was brandished with the heat from distant fires. The screams became louder. She could hear everything so clear.

Every gunshot.

Every explosion.

Every cry.

Every death.

Polly gritted her teeth as her foot caught the end of her skirt once more. In a built up frustration, she bent down. Gripping the end of her skirt with her hands, she pulled with as much strength as she could manage and let out a grunt as the material tore. Her muscles kept straining, pulling with all her might until she was rid of the bottom section of her skirt. It fell to just above her ankles. 

As to not risk leaving any clues behind for the Pinkerton's to find, Polly gathered the material she had ripped away and hurriedly pushed it into her satchel. She pushed herself onto her feet, marching forwards with a sudden determination. As she reached the edge of the roof, her hands stretched out to grab the warm metal ladder that stretched down to the back alleyway of her building. 

She didn't look back, spinning herself around and lowering her body carefully down the ladder. It creaked and groaned as she climbed down, but she just clenched her jaw and prayed she wasn't being too loud. The bloodshed probably disguised her movements, anyway.

When her feet landed on the ground, Polly felt vulnerable again. She was now amidst the chaos, hidden away in a back alley. It wouldn't be long before somebody found her.

She moved quickly to the end of the alley, reluctantly pushing her head around the corner to look towards the direction of the stables. There she spotted her magnificent chestnut Belgian Draft horse, Tess, unsettled and tugging at her reins which were looped around a wooden post.

It became her only focus. Polly's horse, her beautiful horse, was her chance of escape. She was directly in her eye line, and nothing could stop her. There were people near the end of the street. Their shouts could be heard for miles, and they were illuminated by the flash of their own guns firing.

She had to move fast.

So she did.

Her feet moved with a purpose Polly had not found in years. She almost cried when she realised... she was going to make it. She marched so fast it could be mistaken for a skip. This was it. Tess would take her away from Blackwater, away from the deceiving and dangerous life she was forced to live. Away from the threat of the Pinkerton's. Away from the threat of _him_.

She was almost there. Then, she heard the cry. And she stopped running.

 _It was a child_.

Her head turned to the source, down another alleyway cutting between buildings. She squinted her eyes in concern, her conscience freezing her in place.

 _"WATCH OUT!"_ A voice yelled with a throaty growl.

Polly didn't have time to turn before she was thrown onto the ground. Her head was thrown backwards and her chest hit the floor harshly. She let out a loud cough, in shock from the pain of landing. As she attempted to catch her breath, she heard the crack of a gun and flinched. Automatically, her hands covered her face as a weak means of protecting herself.

 _"Come on!"_ The voice growled, roughly grasping Polly's bicep and dragging her up from the floor. The man began to pull her harshly down the alleyway, not concerned that Polly's feet were dragging across the floor loudly. "What the _hell_ was you doing standing there?"

"There's a child down here," Polly blurted, not bothering to waste time. She caught a glimpse of the man through the yellow light of fire. He wore a weathered gambler's hat. His hair fell down to about an inch above his shoulders, beginning to grey. The most noticeable feature he bore was the magnificent moustache that covered his top lip, curving downwards towards his chin.

"Miss, you stopped dead in the middle of the street. Do you _understand_ what's going on?"

"I gather it's a massacre, mister. I'll be _damned_ if I let a child sit in the middle of this," Polly gritted her teeth. She let out a breath, adding, " _Thank you_ , for saving me."

The man nodded tightly, finger still wrapped around the tigger of his revolver. Polly noticed he was dual wielding twin shcofield's. He didn't move from his position, tucked away in the alley. Polly sent him a questioning look.

"You better move fast, they'll have sent out agents and the army could be swarming the damn streets any moment."

Polly did not bother to reply, knowing it was purely trivial at that point. She turned back, eyes scanning the barely lit alleyway. _"It's okay,"_ she breathed, not sure how to approach the child. 

It was quiet, but she could hear the panicked breathing of the child. Polly Barrett was a bad person who strived to do good. And if she had to risk her life to save an innocent child, then that's exactly what she'd do.

Finally, she spotted a shaking leg from behind a stack of crates. She moved cautiously towards the sound of crying, holding her hands out carefully in front of her as a sign of peace. "I know it's scary kiddo, but we have to go now. I can get you out of this."

Polly bent down onto her knees, watching with eyebrows furrowed in concern as the child finally lifted his head. His big brown eyes were filled with tears and there was such a youthful innocence about him that Polly almost started to cry herself. 

"I- I lost my mommy..." He whispered between gasps as he cried.

Polly didn't want to promise him that she could find his mother. Because the reality of the situation was that his mother was probably dead. 

Polly swallowed her guilt. "I can help you kiddo, you just have to come with me. It's not safe out here."

The child kept shaking, his arms tightly wrapped around his small legs. Polly was beginning to panic now. She hadn't spoken to a child in years, and didn't quite know what to do. He was upset. He was scared. And Polly didn't know how to handle it.

"I got lost. And I wanted to see the horses. But I saw Uncle Dutch and dad and Uncle Hosea. But they didn't see me. And I can't find them."

The man keeping watch suddenly snapped his head over to the direction of the child, "Dutch? Dutch van-"

"-van der Linde," Polly breathed, matching the man's words exactly. The two caught each other's eyes. Polly sucked in a breath. "Who are you?"

The man marched over to the two, holstering one of his revolvers. "Landon Ricketts. Been in Blackwater a while, miss. Van der Linde is behind... _this_. Him and his gang."

Polly's strong eye contact faltered for a moment. _"Where do I take him?"_ she asked in desperation. The boy was watching the two of them with fear in his eyes.

Landon Ricketts shook his head, lending Polly a hand which she took to stand up. She then held both hands out to the child, giving him an almost pleading look. His hands were shaking as he reached up and struggled to grab onto her hands which were much bigger than his own.

"Van der Linde and his gang are gone. They got out not long ago, went North. There was a woman, kickin' and screamin', probably the kid's mother if he's tellin' the truth. You need to get off the streets and hide, miss..."

Polly froze as she pulled the child towards her in attempt to protect him. She didn't know what name to give him. Her real name, her fake name, or just any name she could think of. The man _did_ save her life, so she settled on just saying, "Polly."

Whether he felt suspicion or not, he didn't show it.

The boy started to bite down on one thumb, hiding behind Polly's skirts. She clutched one of his hands in her own. "There's no way I could try and follow them?" She asked, defeated. She knew what the reply would be.

In the distance, the sound of shouting was multiplied as carriages began to roll in through the streets. Polly didn't even know who it was. Lawmen, bounty hunters, military. Hell, it could have been all three, and more. 

" _Polly_. _You need to get off the streets_. They're a dangerous gang, and they're gone. If you follow them, they'll probably kill you. Showin' up with their kid."

"I can't just _not_ help!"

 _"Get off the streets! Lock your door- there's nothing you can do!"_ Ricketts raised his voice, and he unholstered his second revolver once more. When Polly hesitated, Ricketts yelled one last time, _"GO!"_

She didn't look back. Polly pulled the child behind her, trying to push away her guilt as she heard his cries. As she ran, she threw a glance over her shoulder, watching as Landon Ricketts threw himself back into the fight. 

_"Come on, kid,"_ Polly urged, desperately tugging at his hand. He struggled to keep up. She felt awful.

She felt sick. But her priorities had changed once more. Polly Barrett had done some bad things. Putting the life of someone else before her was a chance for redemption. It was almost selfish.

When she safely brought the boy back into her office, she shut the door and made sure to lock it behind her. She grabbed a heavy chair, pushing it up against the handle for good measure.

Landon Ricketts was right about one thing. And so was she. Blackwater was now on heavy lockdown, with seemingly every lawman in the country plaguing the streets. 

And Landon Ricketts was also right about another thing. It would be _completely_ dangerous and reckless to try and track the van der Linde gang. 

But she'd be _damned_ if she didn't _try_.

(WATTPAD 𝐀/𝐍)

**For those who haven't played the original Red Dead Redemption, Landon Ricketts was a major character in the first game present during the Blackwater Massacre. Also, if you skipped the prologue, I highly suggest you go back and read it as Polly's background is quite confusing. There will be a chapter later in the book explaining how she ended up in Blackwater, however.**

**I just really, really, really, really love Arthur Morgan lmao**

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter because I kind of hate it hahahahaha**

**Please don't be a silent reader! If you're enjoying this then drop a vote and a comment!!!**


	3. THOSE WHO PROVE WORTHY

𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘

When Polly Barrett was seven years old, her mother told her that she would make a fine lady. She said she would go to a special school and learn how to serve her husband. That she would never have to work a day in her life. Lady Barrett told her daughter that the books she was oh-so interested in would get her nowhere.

She _lied_.

When Polly Barrett was sixteen years old, her father told her that his friend would come with stories of the American West. He told her America was the land of the free, and that moving out there was a chance to expand their family power across the world.

He _lied_.

When Polly Barrett was twenty years old, Catherine Braithwaite told her that she would make an excellent suitor for her son. To live out the rest of her days at Braithwaite Manor and make the Braithwaite line more powerful than the Gray's.

Polly _refused_.

When Polly Barrett was twenty-two years old, her mother and father were killed at the hands of Butch Cassidy, leader of the Wild Bunch gang. Though she hated them both, she took them for granted. They were taken from her, too early. 

_They shouldn't have been_.

When Polly Barrett was twenty-five years old Agent Andrew Milton told her that she was a weak, foreign girl who everyone would look down upon.

He was _wrong_.

And _he_ underestimated _her_.

She made sure to keep the room dark. Throughout the day following the massacre, lawmen, bounty hunters and Pinkertons were plaguing the streets of Blackwater. They knocked down doors and pointed guns at heads, demanding information about what had happened the previous night. It wasn't fair. Almost every resident in Blackwater had suffered the previous night, and having the law stand above them- threatening them- into spilling information they knew nothing on was just one more reason Blackwater felt like a prison.

Polly kept the curtains drawn, and her oil lamp unlit. But even then, she could see the posters of Dutch van der Linde and Hosea Matthews covering every wall. Of course, the known members of the gang had bounty posters littered across the streets as well, but they were all wanted alive. The law needed the leaders of the Van der Linde gang, and they were two recognisable men.

She turned her head to look at the little boy who was sleeping restlessly by her legs. Jack, was his name. He had told her after she settled him down. It was the first time Polly could breath in a day, when he finally fell asleep. Upon bringing him into her office, he cried and cried. He was a little boy, desperate for his mother. And Polly didn't know if she could help him. But there was no way she would leave a child on his own.

When the sky began to turn dark, Polly finally stood from her old couch, careful not to disturb little Jack from his slumber. She walked around, taking enough food to last her and the boy a couple of days, but not enough to make it look as if she had ran away. 

She needed the law to think she was dead.

Which was why she had to move that night.

At that very moment, the biggest priority was to keep Blackwater in lockdown and to investigate what had happened during the massacre. But Polly knew that she was running out of time before the law would come to her. They would search everything she had. But if they thought she was dead, none of it would matter anymore. So she needed to disappear.

The dress she wore was the same as the previous night, bottom still torn off. Her hair was still wild from the running and the fear that overwhelmed her. When she opened her satchel and stared at the section of skirt, she decided to keep it as precaution. Extra fabric had it's great uses.

Knowing Jack was still curled up on the ragged couch, Polly quickly slipped out the door and locked it behind her with a rusted bronze key. She almost could not believe she was in the same place. Just the previous night, the hallway ricocheted every gunshot, every cry of death and every explosion. Now, it was a shell of silence. Polly could hear every drip of water from the leaking roof hitting the floor like the ticking of a clock. Every thumping noise that her foot made when she took a step matched her own heartbeat.

She made it to the door leading onto the lower roof and pushed it open slowly. Outside was deafeningly silent of human activity. The wind howled through the deserted streets, creating a haunting atmosphere. As if Blackwater was plagued by the ghosts of the recently deceased.

Upon stepping out onto the roof for the first time since the previous night, she finally saw the damage caused under the firelight of the lampposts. Though the bodies had been taken off the streets, Polly could still almost make out every spot where somebody had passed away. Whether it be as loud as a crimson pool of still wet blood; or as heartbreakingly subtle as a rose set next to a goodbye letter. Polly stopped her thoughts, closing her eyes tightly for a moment and pressing her fingers against the temples of her head. 

She was brought out of her silent moment by the noise of distant chatter. Polly allowed her eyes to peel open and bent down to her knees carefully so that she could edge closer to the small wall that surrounded the roof. Cautiously looking down onto the streets, she watched as a patrol marched by. There was about eight men that she could see, all armed with powerful rifles. She didn't doubt that they were fully loaded and ready to fire. The man at the front of the group held a lantern, immediately capturing her attention. 

Just behind her view of the lantern, she could just make out the dark silhouette of Tess beginning to doze off. She let out a breath she didn't realise she held, thankful that her horse was still there. Safe.

She shouldn't have been surprised. Blackwater was in complete lockdown. It was why she knew she would have to escape under the cover of darkness. Tess was her chance at freedom, and this time she was going to escape.

_...But she needed to get Jack to his mother._

It was time for her to move. She didn't have any more time to waste. Polly stood and made her way back to her office. The key slid into the lock, and Polly twisted it to unlock the door with a click.

Jack stirred from the couch when he heard Polly not-so-quietly enter her office. All of her rational thinking had disappeared the moment she had seen bounty hunters patrolling the streets. She needed to get out of Blackwater- now.

"Jack," she started, moving over to the couch and dropping to her knees to match his eye-level. "It's not safe here anymore, we need to leave."

The little boy swallowed, his focus shifting around the room in a mixture of fear and confusion. "But what about my mommy? What if she comes looking for me and I'm not here?"

"It's too dangerous Jack. I can try and get you back to your mother, but you need to help me. _Okay?"_ Polly spoke, taking his hands softly and drilling her gaze into his. She didn't want to scare him, but she knew that she couldn't beat around the bush. She needed to get out- _they_ needed to get out.

Jack nodded quickly. "Where... where are we going to go?"

"I need to know where your Uncle Dutch was camped. Do you remember where you lived with mum?" Polly pressed lightly.

"I think so. It was by all the trees. I heard a bear once and it was really scary," Jack spoke.

Polly nodded, as if to convince herself that she could figure it out. Jack clearly spoke of Tall Trees, the forest that lay to the west of Blackwater and Great Plains. She imagined she'd be able to find what was left of the van der Linde gang. It would take a lot of observation and skill, but Polly was determined to get somewhere safe and so she knew that she had no choice _but_ to find it.

"Jack," she spoke with such clarity that the little boy gave her his full attention. "We're going to leave now, okay?"

Jack nodded and squeaked out, "Okay."

"Good, good," Polly nodded. "Now, we have to be quiet, because bad men are in the streets. They're going to be looking for us, so we need to be fast. Can you do that for me?"

"I-I think so."

Polly bit down nervously on her bottom lip. She didn't know if she'd be able to keep Jack calm enough or quiet enough in order to get to Tess without raising alert. Jack couldn't be older than five, therefore he could never understand the scope of the situation. Then, Polly wasn't sure if she understood the true extent of what was going on herself.

Apart from one thing.

She had met Hosea Matthews before. The same Hosea Matthews whose sketch was plastered over the whole town, with a huge price on his head. She had her suspicions about him at the time, but not for something like this. Not for a massacre. Matthews was calculating and level-headed. He knew how to talk his way both into and out of anything. He knew how to get information from people. Polly had witnessed it firsthand. In fact, she had given him information herself when she met him and another man in the saloon.

From what Jack had told her, the gang didn't seem like a ruthless band of killers. Of course, she could not take word from that of a young boy who was most likely hidden away from the negative side of a gang. But even then, the gang had a _child_.

"I have a very important job for you Jack," Polly smiled encouragingly, attempting to disguise the fear she felt inside. She stood quickly, leaving Jack sat with his legs hanging over the edge of the couch. Her eyes scanned the office, landing on a small brown book with golden lettering. _Le Chevalier de la Charrette_ , translated into the English language. Arguably not the easiest book to read, but Polly wasn't thinking too hard. She just needed something to distract Jack. "I need to to take special care of this book for me."

Jack's face lit up, and he held his hands out expectantly. Polly handed him the book carefully, watching as his arms fell slightly from the weight.

"Are you ready?" Polly pressed. The little boy nodded.

Polly reached down by the side of the couch where she had left a second, smaller satchel that she no longer used. She pulled Jack to his feet and placed the satchel over his shoulders. As she began to usher him towards the door, she turned back one last time.

She froze for a moment, her eyes landing on the intricately carved recurve bow she had balanced on a nail on the wall. The bow elicited a flurry of emotions through her body, but she didn't think a moment longer. First and foremost, it was protection, and so she removed it from the wall and pulled the string back enough so she could fit it over her body. There were only three arrows that she had in her office, but she grabbed them nonetheless and slid them into her satchel at an angle.

Taking Jack's hand in her own, Polly pushed open the door and didn't look back. His legs worked hard to keep up with her strides, but Polly didn't have time to be motherly to the child. 

They made it down to the back doors with ease. After all, most of the residents of Blackwater were hiding away in their housing. Still, with every step increasing in speed as Polly panicked in the silence, she couldn't help but feel as if something was wrong.

She pushed open the door carefully and slipped out, bringing Jack with her as he held tightly onto her hand. The noise of wind winding around the back alley was the only thing Polly could hear at the present moment. With slow steps, she began to move forwards. She crouched down ever so slightly as she tried to keep herself contained as best as possible.

The two pushed forwards to the end of the alleyway, and Polly peeked her head around the corner. The streets were completely empty, and she watched as one of Dutch van der Linde's wanted posters fluttered across the ground after being picked up by the wind. The cobbles glistened from the remnants of water used to try and wash away as much of the blood as possible. At the side of the road was a wooden cart, crushed against a lamppost which illuminated the damage under an orange firelight. 

As she strained to listen out for any voices, she heard distant shouting from the direction of the waterfront. It was the opposite direction from where she could see Tess dozing off in the distance.

So she made her move. Whispering a quiet word of encouragement to Jack, she took off across the road. She kept low, and tried not to run too fast when she heard Jack's heavy breathing from beside her. When she got closer to Tess, Polly quickly looked down one of the connecting streets that led down to the waterfront. But there was nobody there.

She didn't have time to think too long. Tess had spotted her and started to perk up to which Polly held out one hand and urged, "Shhhhh, shh!"

Tess shook her head and let out a quiet neigh as her front legs shuffled on the ground.

"Come on Jack," Polly whispered, reaching down and grabbing him by the waist. She hoisted him up and sat him at the front of Tess' saddle. Jack's hands held onto the saddle horn tightly.

Polly's heart raced as she untied the reins from the hitching post. She was close. _So close_.

She didn't climb onto Tess' back straight away. It was much quieter to slowly lead the horse away from the edge of town.

But it wasn't quiet enough.

Polly heard the shouting first. She knew that was her chance, to pull herself up onto Tess' back and to make her run like she'd never ran before. But Polly looked back instead.

Bounty hunters and policemen ran towards them in a stampede, yelling profusely. _Nobody_ was allowed to leave Blackwater. Some of them stopped, bringing rifles up and priming them to shoot. To shoot at Polly.

Then, they all started to fire at once. 

Jack cried loudly, bending forward to put his head in between his arms and Tess shuffled on her legs as she whined uncomfortably. Polly let out a gasp of shock and stumbled backwards.

She didn't wait another moment, the adrenaline multiplying in her body with every gunshot. Polly pulled herself up onto Tess' saddle and grunted, _"Yah!"_ desperately.

But Tess didn't need to be told, she started to gallop at full speed, whining out in fear as bullets whipped past her mane. Jack was crying in front of Polly, and his eyes were tightly shut.

Fortunately for them, the bounty hunters had chosen not to pursue them. By now, Tess had slowed into a gentle gallop. Polly turned her head and watched as Blackwater faded into the distance, realising that the law would not attempt to follow what _looked_ to be a simple mother and child attempting to flee. It wasn't worth it.

And when she finally took a breath, she felt a searing pain at the side of her stomach.

Polly let out a strangled groan, slowly turning her head and looking down towards the source of her pain.

With a shaking hand, she pressed against her blouse and cried out when a burning sensation electrified her body. She pulled her hand away, eyes widening upon realising that she was coated in thick blood.

_She had been shot._

𝐀/𝐍

𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐡 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 

𝐄𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐞-𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐡𝐚 𝐚𝐡𝐚 

𝐆𝐨𝐝, 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐃𝐑𝟐 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓 

𝐀𝐥𝐬𝐨, 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐒𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭

𝗣𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝘃𝗼𝘁𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗲𝗻𝗷𝗼𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝘀𝗼 𝗳𝗮𝗿 𝗯𝗰 𝗜'𝗺 𝘀𝗼 𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗸𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀


	4. TALL TREES FOREST

𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘

It took every ounce of strength in her body for Polly not to fall from Tess' back and throw up the bile that was boiling in her stomach. It _hurt_. The burning she felt in her lower abdomen was incomparable to anything she'd ever felt before. It felt as if somebody had poured tobacco into an open wound and set a match to it. All Polly could feel was pure, concentrated pain.

With every passing minute, it hurt more and more. She fell deeper and deeper into realisation of her situation. A little boy was depending on her. He was sat in front of her for the whole ride, constantly asking questions of, "Are you okay?" and "Why won't your tummy stop bleeding?". Her priorities had shifted massively, and right now Polly knew she needed to find the gang's old camp. 

If the bullet hadn't gone all the way through, Polly would be dead within the next day.

She focussed on her breathing. There was an hour of the journey where Polly just cried silent tears, desperate for Jack not to see her in a moment of what could only be described as pure weakness. Polly Barrett was the type of woman who could talk her way out of anything. Her mind was her asset, and now it was tainted with self deprecating thoughts of failure and discontent. There was an element of panic as she urged Tess to trot faster without jolting into a gallop.

"I remember this!" Jack squeaked excitedly, lifting one hand to point in the distance. Polly followed to where his hand was pointing, very distantly spotting golden fire embers through the tree-line of the forest. After checking nobody was occupying the roads close by, Polly reached forwards with a groan of pain to unlatch the lantern that was strapped onto Tess' saddle-bag.

"Do you know how to turn this on?" Polly asked lowly to Jack.

He nodded happily, taking the lantern with both hands by the glass exterior. "My mommy taught me."

"That's nice, Jack," Polly grunted, biting down on her bottom lip, _hard_ , as a shooting pain electrified in her stomach.

Jack's hand gripped to nozzle of the lamp and twisted it, birthing a light yellow flame in the centre. For a moment, Polly was captured by the light. It was oddly calming in her moment of peril. But she knew that Jack would not have the strength to lift the lamp high enough for it to be of any use, so she reached forwards (slowly) and took it away from him. It was a lot harder than she anticipated, as her arms were fatigued and she had lost every bit of core strength she had. But still, she urged Tess forwards with her heels.

As they broke through the tree line, eyes searching for the golden fire embers that marked their target, they were swallowed by the wild nature of the forest. It was if they had entered a different world. Each one of Tess' footsteps made Polly wince as the noise of snapping twigs and rustling leaves were almost a beacon in the night. There was an odd sense of dread that lurked on the forest floor, as the vegetation camouflaged any threat that could be waiting for vulnerable prey to walk by. Right now, a child and a critically injured adult was the definition of _vulnerable prey_.

But Polly didn't _intend_ on being eaten by a bear. Not that night, anyway.

The two broke through into a small clearing just as the last of the fire embers disappeared into the night sky. From the only just extinguished fire to the odd stretches of canvas strung up between tree trunks, Polly knew she had found the right place. Abandoned within the last day or two with odd chunks of money and personal belongings left behind- they had left in a rush. She knew this was the Van der Linde Gang's camp. 

"I see my book!" Jack exclaimed excitedly, clapping his hands together and restlessly moving in front of Polly who was trying her hardest not to scream at him to stop moving. She gripped the top of his arm tightly, muttering at him to calm down. 

"Okay, okay," Polly breathed, more to herself than Jack. She tapped on the side of Jack's left leg. "Can you swing this leg over for me?"

Jack complied without question. With a small grunt, he lifted his left leg and swung it with great effort across Tess back. His foot caught on the horn of the saddle for a second, but Jack used his hand to grab his ankle and pull it over so that he was now sat side-saddle.

"Good. Now slide down," Polly nodded towards the ground with her hand still tightly wrapped around his arm. "Don't worry, I've got you."

With a small amount of hesitance, Jack pushed his hips forwards and slowly began to slip off Tess' saddle. Polly winced loudly as her arm took all of his weight and she gritted her teeth tightly as she leant to the side in order to lower him carefully onto the grass. As soon as his feet touched the floor, Polly let go of his arm and clutched her stomach tightly.

Then, Polly replicated Jack's actions. She closed her eyes, almost preparing for the pain she was about to feel. Climbing onto Tess an hour ago was easy, because she was fuelled by pure adrenaline. Now, reality had settled. She couldn't stop looking at the wound in her stomach. As if staring at it was going to magically make it heal. 

She leant backwards, resting one arm against the back of Tess' saddle, to make it easier for her to pull her leg up and over her horse's back. It was a struggle, but she managed to do it. 

As she lowered herself down to the ground, her body began to straighten out. Polly sucked in a sharp breath, feeling the bullet wound stretch. Her skin was taught, she convinced herself that she could feel parts of her insides tear as they stretched apart. It took her a moment to recover, one hand still pressed firmly against the bloodied mess.

"Jack?" she whispered, her eyes tightly pinched shut.

"Yes?" came his reply. She didn't have to open her eyes to know he was staring at her.

Polly took a few moments to breath deeply before continuing. "Take that satchel that I gave you, and fill it with food. Anything canned. Have you got a winter coat here?"

"I think so."

"Good," Polly sighed. "No, that's good. Go put it on for me."

She did not watch him go over to one of the fallen tents, figuring he would be okay gathering what he needed for a moment. Instead, she scanned the empty remains of the camp. Her eyes landed onto a small wooden crate with scraps of folded linen tossed inside. In relief, she stumbled over, almost crying when she spotted an open bottle of moonshine on the ground beside it. There was about half the bottle's worth of alcohol still sitting inside, to which Polly let out a relieved groan.

Her hands were shaking as she grabbed the bottle neck, almost letting the contents pour out from her own fumbling idiocy. She haphazardly shook the bottle over a clean rag of linen, soaking the material and wincing as the strong odour of alcohol invaded her nostrils and caused her head to thump in pain. Carefully, she lowered herself onto a tree stump nearby and grit her teeth tightly at the pain.

She quickly cast one last look over to Jack, who was attempting to lift his heavy winter coat off the ground. They were safe, for now.

With a deep breath, Polly spare linen material placed it between her teeth. Then, she pressed the pungent-smelling, moonshine-soaked material against her stomach. 

It took every ounce of strength for Polly not to scream out loud. Her teeth bit down on the material in her mouth so hard that she wouldn't be surprised if her jaw locked into place. As the powerful substance began to seep into her skin, she hit her fist _hard_ against the tree stump she was sat on- begging for it to distract her from the pain. It didn't work too well, and now her left fist was sore and bleeding.

Polly let out sharp, quick grunts as she tried to breathe systematically through her nose. Her hand was shaking as she willed herself to keep pressing against her wound. Eventually, her breathing slowed, and the pain dulled to a numb ache. She continued to clean the flesh around the shot until satisfied, but the blood kept running every time it was wiped away.

When she calmed down enough, she reached a shaking hand around her back and cried out loud when she felt an exit wound that burned under her touch. She had _time_. The bullet that caused the damage had passed through her body, and it wasn't poisoning her blood. Her chances of survival had increased significantly.

Her next idea came when looking at her satchel, which had been carelessly tossed to the side in her scramble to clean the tear through her body. She grasped it tightly and threw open the flap, eyes resting on the torn off section of her skirt which she had kept, just in case. Her instincts were correct.

She pulled out the section of fabric and wrapped it twice around her waist. In front of the wound on her stomach, she placed a fresh section of linen to act as a bandage. Then, she pulled tightly at the makeshift belt. The immense pressure that increased in her stomach made her feel ill. But then, when the pain settled, it was bearable. Not completely gone, but enough that she was strong enough to be able to hoist herself back onto Tess' back.

A small noise of a twig snapping caused Polly to snap her head towards the source. It was Jack, swallowed by the size of his winter coat that he had barely pulled over his body properly. He had filled the satchel Polly had given him to the brim, and held a coloured scarf in his hands. 

Polly slipped the small amount of moonshine left into her satchel, as well as a fresh strip of linen. Her hands reached out to grasp the front of Jack's coat, and she tugged at it to gently pull it properly onto his body. Fingers shaking, she fumbled trying to push each button through it's coherent slot. Eventually, she did, and she took the scarf from Jack's hands in order to wrap the scarf around his neck. 

Once done, she placed one hand onto his shoulder. "You have to trust me, Jack."

"I do," he spoke in his high pitched voice.

Polly bit down on her lip. "It's going to be tough. And it's going to be cold- and Jack... I'm going to try my very hardest to get you back to your mother. But you have to know, I might not be able to find her."

Jack's eyes were wide, and he nodded slowly. "It's okay."

She took a breath, "Let's go."

Polly stood suddenly, filled with determination. She whistled with such a sharp intensity that it almost reminisced a whip slicing through the air, and Tess came trotting over to the two of them as Polly walked with Jack to meet her. It _hurt_ when she placed her hands underneath Jack's armpits and lifted him high to he could grab onto the horn of Tess' saddle, but she was beyond caring about her injury at that moment.

Before she herself mounted the horse, Polly eyed a small crate of hay, and stuffed as much of it as possible into the saddle bag. Then, she lifted her leg and placed her foot into the stirrup. With a heaving groan, Polly swung herself onto Tess' back and quickly pressed a hand against her gunshot wound. It was warm, and she swore that she felt a slight dampness. But it was nothing that required immediate action. 

"Look," Jack whispered worriedly from in front of her, his arm outstretched and pointing towards several lanterns lighting who Polly could only assume to be bounty hunters some distance away through the trees. But Polly and Jack were swallowed by the darkness in the small clearing, and she knew the woods disguised danger lurking around every corner. Nobody would be stupid enough to come barrelling through Tall Trees forest, yelling and screaming. 

With that, Polly clicked her tongue quietly and pressed her heels into Tess' sides, jolting as the magnificent horse began to steadily thud away from the clearing.

She didn't know how long she could last with such a wound. On top of that, she had no idea how long the journey north would take her. She could make an assumption, but it would discount the large storm she saw brewing in the sky above her as they stalked through Tall Trees, trying to keep away from open roads. If worst came to worst, she would have to stop in the town of Strawberry in order to gather her thoughts. 

It was possibly the most foolish thing she had ever done. Polly knew that if she couldn't make it, neither could Jack. His life was completely resting on her own, and Polly was like a bomb, ticking down until detonation. The only thing being, she had no idea how long she could survive. Or, _if_ she could survive.

𝐀/𝐍

𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲. 𝐒𝐨, 𝐈'𝐦 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭. 𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐣𝐮𝐦𝐩 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐬𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐠.

𝐇𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐰? 𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐲𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥.


	5. TRIAL OF THE MOUNTAINS

𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘 

𝐒𝐇𝐄 was dying. The paleness of her skin was so apparent that if she dropped dead in the snow, her body would only be found by the red of her dress. Every breath she took gradually got harder. The freezing air of the mountains was like a stab to the chest with each sharp inhale. 

In the two weeks since Polly and Jack had left the Van der Linde camp back in Tall Trees, Polly had only changed her bandage once. Exactly one week previously. She only had enough for that one change, and she had foolishly assumed that she would have picked up their trail by that point. Her optimism had quickly dwindled into regret as she progressed further into the storm, the icy wind freezing the tears before they could even fall down her cheeks.

The only hope she had at this point was based on pure guessing. There was an old, abandoned mining village at the foot of one of Ambarino's great mountains, Colter. She assumed that a such a large group of people would be travelling slowly, and would have to rest at some point. After all, the law was not even attempting the journey at this point, the storm being far too dangerous to risk any of their lives for.

Including hers.

She had never felt such concentrated and unassuming guilt before, not once in her entire life. Not when she deliberately acted out in a way that resulted in her exclusion from the boarding school she attended at a young age. Not when she continually lashed out at her mother and father for trying to control her life, resulting often in tears from her mother... Not even when her parents were killed in front of her.

No, the guilt Polly felt was all because of the boy sat in front of her. He often cried in discomfort, which just made it so much harder to force him onto Tess' back. Every second that they paused to camp; or paused so Polly could shoot painfully (and more often than not, unsuccessfully) their dinner for that night; was a second that Polly was losing on her life. With every step forward Tess took, it was a step closer to reuniting Jack with his mother. But every step forwards was a step further away from civilisation. 

If Polly died before she could find Jack's mother, she had killed him. There was no doubt about it. Polly would fall from Tess' back into the snow and Jack would be stuck on Tess' saddle. Even if he did manage to slide down and cushion the fall in the thick snow, all the boy could do would be to sit and freeze next to Polly's corpse. He would be scared, and alone. That's if they weren't attacked by wolves or bears first. And she had seen signs of both throughout their journey.

For the past week, Polly had been trying to formulate a plan in her mind. Her conscience was completely torn. If she urged Tess to move faster, there was a chance she could survive long enough to find Jack's mother. But, there was a chance she wouldn't. She would die in a blizzard, and Jack would be forever stuck, far away from the nearest town. If she urged Tess to slow down, it would almost certainly seal her fate. But it could give her time to set Jack up for a tough journey ahead. 

"Jack..." Her voice was so weak and unstable that Polly almost did not even recognise it as her own. 

Jack shivered, his cheeks stinging red from the wind slapping his face. "It's cold..."

"I know, I know," she felt sick at the regret in her stomach. It was almost enough to lean over the side of Tess and hurl onto the ground. She gulped, though there was no moisture in her throat. "I don't think I can make it, Jack..."

He was silent, for a while. But then his voice sounded, weak and innocent, "You had no sleep for a long time. Maybe you're just tired?"

Polly's face was scrunched up harshly, a potent frown appearing that she couldn't help but produce as she tried with all her might not to cry. She absolutely did not want to face the reality of the situation, but felt utterly trapped. "Jack, if I fall asleep... I won't wake up again. Do you understand me?"

"But- you... you mean you'll die?" He asked in a high pitched innocence. 

Polly could not answer him directly, instead avoiding his question with a shaky sigh. "If I... go to sleep, Jack. I need you to leave me."

"I- I can't-"

"Jack, _listen,_ " Polly urged as she willed Tess to go faster. Her horse was struggling in the thick snow, each step forwards taking twice as long as usual. "If I fall, you need to jump down into the snow and run towards the mountains. There's an old mining village, you'll be safe there. You take all the food, and you don't look back. Okay?"

Jack did not respond, and so Polly urged in an authoritative tone, _"Okay?"_

Andfinally, Polly saw Jack nod from the seat in front of her.

***

They rode for an hour more, Polly gritting her teeth so hard that her jaw almost locked into place. She _knew_ they couldn't be far from Colter, and after hearing Jack start to cry she tried with the last of her strength to wrap him in an extra blanket. 

Her hands had frozen into place, tightly gripping Tess' reins. The length of the bottom of her skirt that had been tightly wrapped around her waist had been soaked. With blood. With sweat. With melted snow. She could not stretch any part of her body, for she had almost stiffened into place. There was no doubt in her mind that if she didn't already, there would be saddle sores forming. Polly had forgotten how long it had been since she had gotten off Tess' back.

And Tess was struggling hard. Polly felt an enormous weight of guilt in the pit of her stomach as she heard Tess cry in discomfort, but they had absolutely no choice but to push on.

Night had fallen, and the lantern hanging from Tess' neck did little to illuminate their surroundings. The flurry of snow that blew against them was completely blinding, and all that was visible was the few feet in front of them. They were forced to slow down, Tess being unable to boldly run into the white abyss. Polly could no longer feel any part of her body, and she grunted in pain with every step forward. Her clothes had been soaked in the rain and the snow, but now the freezing wind was layering frost on the fabric of her dress. It _hurt_. _Everything_ _hurt_. 

There was a moment where she wanted to simply give up. Polly began to confuse the white of the storm with her own life slipping away. But she knew she had to keep pushing, for Jack.

Then, through the blinding snow of the blizzard, Polly spotted a light. A flame. A flicker of hope in the white darkness.

Her heart leapt, and she was filled with a rush of adrenaline so pure and concentrated that even Tess felt it, and the horse began to power forwards through the snow.

Then, a fence post of deep brown wood. Collapsed into the snow. Then, another light.

"Jack..." Polly croaked, her voice hoarse and weak. Breaking apart every second that she was losing grip on her life.

Jack's head slowly lifted, his gaze resting on the small shacks ahead of them. His tone was so hopeful as he whispered, "Mommy?"

The snow had started to clear, creating silhouettes and shapes of a group of people, dancing in the moonlight and illuminated by the firelight. There were horses hitched outside, and various caravans and wagons hidden behind old wooden shacks.

Jack called louder, _"Mommy!"_ and started to shake with tears as one of the figures in the group spun around with a startled and almost frantic shake.

The figure was a woman, grasping her skirts tightly in her fists and struggling to run through the thick snow. Then, a scream of pure hope, _"JACK!"_

 _It was her._ Jack's mother. The person Polly had been fighting for over two weeks to find. She sighed, a deep and honest sigh of relief and accomplishment. She had done it... and now she was tired.

And Polly Barrett was unconscious before she even hit the ground.

𝐀/𝐍 

𝐇𝐢, 𝐈 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐡 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥. 

𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫! 


	6. TRUST IN A LIAR

𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐋

𝐓𝐇𝐄 cold of the Ambarino mountains was unlike anything the Van der Linde Gang had ever experienced before. It was ruthless and unforgiving, and preyed on those amongst them who were weak. The tips of their fingers, and their toes, had been bitten by the harsh wind. The snow that clung to their coats and scarves would melt in some areas from their body heat and leave them damp and freezing. The law would be utterly foolish to attempt to follow them through such a deadly storm. Though, many of them supposed they themselves were also fools.

Colter was barely the place it used to be. A remote mining village, abandoned for years now when supplies dwindled and conditions became too dangerous to continue work. But alas, they could not complain about the rotting wood or the creaking rooftops because in that moment, it was shelter they so desperately needed.

The bulk of the gang was gathered outside, arms folded together in a weak attempt to conserve heat. It was getting dark, and the dusk wind whipped their skin and turned it red on the tips of their noses and ears. Strauss, the appointed 'doctor' of the group, had requested space to attempt to settle the vile wounds that tore through John Marston's face. 

As suspected, Abigail was truly shaken. There were drag marks through the snow from where she had been pacing back and forth in anticipation and upset. Ever since she had been dragged into the group's caravan to escape Blackwater, kicking and screaming, Abigail Roberts had been a mess. Her face tinted by the blood in her cheeks, hair wild and sticking to the dried tears around her eyes. She had lost her son- she had no way of knowing where he was, if he was okay... or anything. For all she knew, he could have sat in a flurry of tears and watched his own mother abandon him. He could be hiding in a tent at camp, shaking and alone as the law descended on him. They could use him. Or maybe bandits would find him first and see him as nothing more than young meat to use in whichever way would benefit-

" _Abigail Roberts_ , this pacing back and forth is doing nothing to help this situation!" Miss Grimshaw scolded, marching through the snow and away from the heat of the wooden shack John Marston was being treated in. Susan Grimshaw was a forthright woman, with a pointed and firm expression who acted as an almost paternal figure to the gang. There was no difference to her figure even in this extreme moment, as she walked with power towards the small group that had congregated in a huddle to try and keep warmth.

Abigail was hysterical. The scarf that was keeping her warm had fallen from around her head to rest on her shoulders, but she had not even noticed. "Do you expect me to stay _calm_? Whilst John is locked away with tears through his face and whilst I don't know where my son is?"

Miss Grimshaw allowed Abigail to let out her frustrations and came to a stop beside Lenny Summers, an African-American boy of nineteen who stood with his arms tightly folded and his silent gaze pointed to the floor. Susan pulled her thick shawl tighter around her body and used her hand to gesture to Abigail who was still shaking. "Miss Roberts, you know _mighty well_ all this worry isn't going to make Mr Marston any better."

A relaxed Mexican accent spoke up over the dark wind, "And you know as soon as this storm clears, we will be looking for the boy."

"But _when_ will this storm clear Javier?" Abigail snapped, an electrifying hysteria to her tone as she snapped her arms by her sides and her hands formed into tight fists.

Javier Escuella did not rise to her tone. His gloved hands wrapped tightly around the carbine repeater he had, fully loaded. "I don't know _querida_ \- but we will move as soon as we can. When it is safe."

"Y'all should have left me. Then I'd have a _chance_ at knowing he'd be safe."

Miss Grimshaw tensed. "Don't you speak like that Abigail Roberts." She waved an accusatory finger at her. She was a woman who demanded control without asking for it. The gang followed her, and they always had. It was no different in that situation. They were slowly wasting away, yet eleven people stood around her with a sense of hope and tranquility despite their almost frost-bitten skin.

All except Abigail Roberts, who was overwhelmed with emotion that she could not pinpoint. 

" _Oh_ , _will_ -" Miss Grimshaw cut herself off as irritation laced her voice. Bill Williamson, a meat-headed burly man held a lantern out in front of him. It provided a small golden light in the deep darkness, but it had flickered out and once again plunged the group into a cold, bluish shadow. "Somebody get that goddamn lantern lit!"

It was Bill himself that huffed groggily as he pushed his repeater up into his armpit to grip it as his hand slid into his pocket to retrieve a match. He pushed his weight onto one foot as he lifted the other to strike the match on the sole of his boot. After two unsuccessful tries, he started to loose his balance and he almost toppled over onto the person next to him. Arthur Morgan scowled, looking down towards Bill who's shoulder was now pressed against his chest. Arthur pushed him off, causing Bill to stumble back on his feet and almost drop his repeater. "Your boot's _wet_ , you big idiot."

Once the lantern had been lit, the group fell into a cold silence. The wind picked up for a moment, and it cried as it tumbled past the gang, carrying snow away into the distance. It was a flurry of white, and a few members felt the anxiousness of being so exposed in the open. 

_Mommy_.

A voice sounded from inside the white sheet of air. The gang all froze where they were stood, several members sliding their hands down towards their holsters to grab their guns, whilst others who already held them pointed them into the blizzard. There was a moment of pure panic that silently resonated through each person as they slowly looked between each other.

Everyone except Abigail.

"Jack?" She whispered in awe, as if she could not believe what she was hearing. Her fists slowly unfurled to grab her skirts in her hands as she spun frantically to try and locate the voice.

 _"Abigail Roberts don't you-"_ But not even Mrs Grimshaw's voice could get through to a desperate mother.

 _"JACK!"_ Abigail yelled in hysteria, plowing through the snow and disappearing into the storm. She ignored the cries of the gang behind her. She ignored the jostling of guns as some of the gang members attempted to follow her through the thick white coated ground. All she focussed on was the sound of her son. Her _son_.

Then, through the sheet of white wind and snow, she saw the silhouette of a great mare. On it's back... a boy. _Her_ boy. _"Jack! It's mama!"_ She called, voice shaking violently. She did not stop running until she had reached the horse, who whined and cried in discomfort. Her hands reached out to touch the freezing tear-stained face of her little boy.

"Mama... She needs help!" He cried, pointing down into the snow.

Abigail murmured thankful prayers to herself, at first disregarding her son's words as confusion and pain. She did not even wonder for a second about how he managed to get back to her- because that was all that mattered. He was back with her.

She stood on her toes and wrapped her arms tightly around him pulling him down from the saddle of the horse with a struggled grunt mixed with a cry of relief. As she held him in her arms with tragic happiness, she allowed her eyes to drift around to check if they were alone.

Then, she saw the deep red dress.

"Arthur! Charles!" Abigail yelled in fright, jumping backwards and pulling Jack's head into her shoulder with one hand.

She heard their footsteps through the snow behind her. Frantic and messy. She almost turned and ran back for their protection. _Almost_. Because she finally allowed her son's words to settle.

 _She needs help_.

Abigail looked down towards the figure once more. It was a woman. Pale as death and lying in the snow with her eyes closed. Her dress was pristinely crafted, yet was torn above her ankles. Lips the colour of fresh blood. Then, Abigail saw the missing piece of her dress, tightly wrapped around her waist. It held in place a bandage, stained scarlet from blood. _"Oh God..."_ Abigail whispered, her hand shaking as she tried to keep Jack's head in place, nestled in her shoulder. She would have assumed the woman was dead, if not for the plumes of smoky breath that she caught escaping her mouth.

"Jack," Abigail whispered into her son's ear. "Who is this?"

Jack sniffed. "She helped me, mama."

Abigail's eyes widened at his words. If what he said, that this woman had brought him back to her- she couldn't possibly leave her in the snow to die. There was a moment where Abigail was completely engrossed in her own mind, and she could not hear the footsteps of the gang trudging through the snow to find her. Her bottom lip shook as she tried to weigh the options of the situation. 

But she quickly came to a conclusion. This woman had saved her son. Brought him back to her. So there was no chance that Abigail would stand and watch her pass away in the snow.

***

"Who is it?"

" _Bill, Javier, Micah_ \- ride out and _make sure_ she was alone! _Pearson_ \- search the horse!"

" _Dutch_ , what are we going to do?"

"I need _everybody_ to _get out_ so I may work-"

" _Herr Strauss_ \- you _keep this woman alive_! We need to find out where she's from and if she's working for anybody."

" _Abigail!_ "

"Everything is going to be fine-"

" _Abigail!_ "

"I want Charles, Lenny and Karen to keep watch!"

" _ABIGAIL!_ "

The black-haired young woman finally snapped out of her trance, and met the pointed gaze of Miss Grimshaw who was clambering for the girl to pay attention. Abigail still held tightly onto her son. She had just got him back- and she wasn't about to let him go.

"Miss Roberts, you need to let me take a look at the boy." Grimshaw commanded such authority that Abigail would usually comply with. But it took several words from the women around her to convince Abigail to let go of her son. 

Miss Grimshaw began to look over the boy from head to toe, setting him down by the fire and removing his soaking wet clothes in order to change him into something dry. The entire time, Abigail could not stop watching over him, chewing down on the thumb of her glove as tears rolled down her face. She felt like a complete mess, watching over her boy. Her boy that she hadn't seen in weeks. Her boy that she thought was possibly dead. Not even Tilly Jackson's arm wrapped around her shoulder could calm her.

The wooden house had finally quietened down, with half of the gang either keeping watch or searching for information about the woman who had been lain down on a low table. She looked oddly at peace, despite her skin looking cold and the violent stain of blood that covered her stomach. Abigail watched with nervous anticipation as Strauss used a hunting knife to cut through the section of ruby fabric that was tied tightly around her stomach, revealing a once white bandage that had been dyed with the woman's own blood. His fingers gripped the corner of the linen bandage, and he peeled it back slowly.

A couple of the women and Reverend Swanson looked away from the wound with a grimace, as they could not bear to see the sticky blood forming thick strings as it was peeled away from her body. Despite the cold appearance of her body, the wound looked hot. Strauss raised his eyebrows in mild alarm. "It is a wound from a gunshot."

Dutch's eyebrows twitched. "Arthur, go join Charles to keep watch..."

Arthur, who had been stood by the door with arms folded and his eyes pointedly focussing on the woman's face, nodded curtly and took his time slipping out of the door- not before pinching his eyebrows together in an expression focussed on Hosea Matthews. 

"I want this woman alive, Herr Strauss," Dutch spoke lowly. "We need to know _why_ , and _how_ , she found us. And we need to know _when_ she was shot. Because we might not have long to stay here before the law finds us."

The gang were visibly shaken. And despite the quiet, Jack's voice was barely heard as he quietly spoke from beside the fire. _"Her name is Polly."_

But Abigail heard her son speak. "What did you say? Jack, baby, what did you say?"

Jack swallowed as the few members of the gang stared down at him. "Her... her name is Polly. And- and she saved me. From the bad men."

Dutch crouched down to meet the boy at eye-level, acutely aware of Strauss behind him preparing to cauterise her wound. "Do you know when she was hurt, my boy?"

"Uhh, she was hurt in the city Uncle Dutch. She was hurt by the bad men." His lip started to quiver, and Abigail rushed over to him in order to gather him in her arms as he began to cry. She looked over towards John, who was lying to the side silently with his eyes shut and a bandage covering half his face. Jack continued to cry into her shoulder, and her jaw tightened as she was almost reduced to tears herself. " _Please don't let her die_ _Uncle Dutch_."

"Don't worry, son," Dutch reassured, though nobody missed the dangerous tone to his voice. "We won't."

𝐀/𝐍

𝐈 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤, 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐧.

𝐒𝐨 𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐠. 𝐈'𝐦 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐞 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭. 𝐈'𝐦 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐒𝐎 𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞... 𝐚 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐈𝐧 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐧...


	7. 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐏 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓

𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘

𝐈𝐍 all her years of living, Polly had never felt such physical pain as the concentrated burning in her stomach as a man whom she did not know pressed a hissingly hot section of metal against her gunshot would. He did so in sharp, integrated bursts that increasingly lengthened and increased in pressure. With each one, Polly felt more and more confused. Her bottom lip wobbled and her gaze was blurred by unwelcome tears that felt thick at the bottom of her eyes.

She had been lost in a peaceful and calming sleep of near-death when the first burning sensation appeared. It was sudden, and all she could see was _white_ as she jolted awake with such a strangled yell that she was aware of several people nearby jumping out of their skin. She did not have time to think over the fact that several of those nearby had pulled out shiny revolvers and clicked them into a loaded state.

Her hands shot outwards to try and reach for the man who was causing her the pain, but she was quickly apprehended by two figures. Large and imposing figures, wearing thick coats to protect them from the freezing cold that even Polly was not too disoriented to feel. But there was no time to ponder over the identities of those around her, because she was confused and there was a thumping pain that clattered inside of her head.

Eventually, the whiteness of her pain was all she could see. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and the pain became far too much for her to bear. So she allowed herself to surrender to the will of her own body. Again.

The next time she woke, she was surrounded by a howling wind creaking the wood that held the structure of the cabin she lay in. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, allowing her to adjust to the crackling firelight of the room. She inhaled a sharp breath, whether from the shock of the ache in her stomach or the shock that she was _alive_ \- Polly did not know.

Her right arm pushed against the thin blanket she had been resting on, as her left came to grip her stomach and she pushed herself up so she was sat. Her weight had been distributed mostly onto one side to avoid feeling as much pain as possible.

Then, she heard the click of a gun.

Polly froze, and slowly allowed her eyes to lift up and meet the cool metal ring of a dark grey steel revolver. She trailed her gaze along the gun, noticing a red and black skull grip and the words _'Vengeance is hereby mine'_ etched into the barrel. Then, her gaze changed focus. The hand holding the gun was steady and confident, black leather gloves not hindering the hold in any way. It quickly became apparent that it was a man, and he wore a leather coat of a brownish-red. "Don't you _move_ , you little whore."

Her throat tightened as she watched his thumb reach around his revolver to slowly, and agonisingly, pull down the hammer to load it. The snarl on his face was enhanced by the horseshoe shaped moustache he bore, and his dirty blonde shoulder length hair acted as a curtain to the devil that hid in his eyes.

"Micah, lower the gun," came a calm voice from just beside Polly. A quick glance told her that he was one of the men who had tried to hold her down earlier. He had dark skin, with light scarring, and he wore a blue wool coat to shield him from the chill.

The man was enraged, and he spat in a gravelly voice, "I don't take orders from you-"

"Micah, this lady is our _guest_ ," appeared another voice. A voice of charisma and power. Polly was captured by his appearance, as though he commanded the attention of those around him without issuing actual command. He looked a contrast to many of those around him, bearing a smart black winter coat and a thick black moustache. He looked _rich_ , like he was top of the social chain. "You'll have to forgive Micah, my dear. He's quite trigger-happy."

The man- Micah- tightened his jaw before reluctantly lowering the revolver, spinning it more times than Polly could count around his finger before slotting it into a brown holster at his side. Polly swallowed nervously as the man dressed in black stepped forwards, his chest high and his expression completely unreadable.

It was that moment that she remembered. Remembered the situation that led her to that point. Her face fell, and her gaze wavered for a moment. "Where's the boy?"

She could tell instantly from the confused gazes around her that her accent had caused an unrest throughout the group.

"The boy is safe with his mother," was the response she received. She relaxed ever so slightly, her chest falling in momentary relief. But the black-haired man held a stoic expression, and so Polly's shoulders still retained a tightness. Then, out of nowhere, he cracked a wide smile and chuckled dangerously. "You'll have to forgive our skepticism, we weren't expecting to be... followed through such a storm." There was nothing sorry about his tone, however. His eyes were accusing and pointed. Polly knew this was the infamous Dutch van der Linde

In truth, Polly was completely intimidated of him.

"Where are my manners?" Van der Linde chuckled. "What's your name, my dear?"

There was a moment where Polly hesitated, but deduced that lying would get her nowhere in such a situation. She knew the suspicion she would be causing at that moment. And so finally, she spoke, "Polly. Polly Barrett."

"And you're not from around here?" His tone was still accusatory.

"Not... originally," she admitted at last. When his gaze told her that he expected further explanation, she elaborated. "I moved from England a few years ago."

Van der Linde barely allowed her to finish speaking. "Why are you here, Polly?"

"I..." she paused. "I worked in an office, in Blackwater. I tried to leave during the massacre-"

"It weren't no _massacre_ ," a new voice interrupted. It belonged to a burly man with a thick brown beard who towered above many of the gang members he stood ahead of.

Polly narrowed her eyes. "You all left before you saw the damage."

Van der Linde pulled a wooden chair from nearby and placed it a few feet from Polly, who still sat on the thin blanket with one hand loosely gripping her wound. He lowered himself down and leant forwards, his eyebrows furrowing in a way that made Polly nervous. "I presume you know who we are?"

Polly held his gaze for a moment, her face remaining impassive. Then, she almost scoffed, "Of course I do." She watched as _some_ of the men rested their hands on their guns. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the boy."

From behind the bulk of the group, she saw the figure of a woman shuffle uncomfortably. She was around Polly's age, with striking features and dark hair that was partially covered by a scarf that was wrapped around her neck. If she was to assume, this was Jack's mother, as she could point out several similar features to the boy which he had been gifted from her.

"And how did you know he belonged to us?" Was the next question.

Polly shook her head and sighed. "When I found him... he was scared. He spoke several names- one being yours, _Dutch van der Linde_."

The two squinted their eyes at one another, as if in silent competition.

"So how did you find us?" He pressed with an ever growing tautness to his tone.

"It wasn't hard." Polly almost felt smug saying it. "Your posters are all over Blackwater Dutch van der Linde. There was talk of your entire gang running off. The boy helped me find your camp in Tall Trees. It wasn't too difficult to deduce that you'd gone North."

The dark-skinned man from earlier, who looked to be of Native American descent, spoke up once more. His voice was smooth and calming. "I said our tracks were too obvious, Dutch."

 _"Hey,"_ the woman who had shifted just before- who Polly had assumed to be Jack's mother- suddenly burst out. "If it weren't for those tracks, my _son_ would not be here."

"Now Abigail, you know that isn't what Charles meant." Dutch raised one hand to silence the brewing argument, without even turning to look at those behind him. Polly was awestruck at the respect such a man garnered. Dutch then nodded towards her stomach. "And what about this?"

Polly sighed. "Blackwater's in lockdown Mr Van der Linde. When I tried to get Jack out of there, the law were patrolling. They got me, but they _didn't_ follow me. Tess was..." She suddenly lost her train of thought at the mention of her horse. "Oh lord, is Tess- my horse- I was riding her here... is she okay?"

"The horse is _mighty_ fine, Miss Barrett," Dutch reassured. "Are you _positive_ that you weren't followed?"

She swallowed. "I saw them turn back myself. A woman and a boy- it wasn't worth following us. They may have sent out patrols, but nobody is foolish enough to head into a storm like this."

"Nobody, but _you_ ," Dutch spoke.

Polly's lips twitched. "And _you_ , Dutch van der Linde."

There was a moment where Polly thought Dutch may have pulled out his revolver and shot her. But, as quick as the feeling appeared, it vanished as the man smiled wide and cackled loudly. "Excellent. Oh, excellent. Miss Grimshaw, come get this girl something warm to drink."

She was jarred by the sudden change in atmosphere as some of the gang began to wander outside. It was only then Polly noticed the darkness outside, and she imagined many of the people that once stood in front of her had turned in for the night after discovering Polly Barrett was no immediate threat. She heard Dutch mutter to the group, _"We need to get moving soon."_

It was only when the room started to empty that Polly spotted two men stood over by the door. One was an older gentleman with an approachable posture. He was lean, with cropped silver hair and a neatly shaven face. His features were strong, but there was a certain softness to his appearance.

The first thing she noticed about the other man were his eyes. A striking blue that told of waterfalls and the morning sky, and they completely captured her. He was handsome, with thick brown hair and a thin layer of stubble lining his strong jaw. His build was muscular, and he stood around six feet tall. But despite his handsome features, there was a certain sadness in his expression.

The two men shared a look with one another, before turning on their heels and strolling out of the door and into the winter night. Polly's bottom lip quivered for a moment. Suddenly, she was filled with an anxiousness that she had not anticipated.

Because she had met the two men before.

But even worse- they had met _her_.  
  
  


𝐀/𝐍

𝐖𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐲𝐞𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐰 


	8. 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑 could remember a lot about the day that he met the woman who called herself Polly Barrett. The colour of the evening sky, the ever so slightly chilling temperature- he could even remember what drink he had. A whisky (that Arthur scoffed upon hearing the price of) that partially made up for it's expense by the strength of the tang that did in fact make Arthur wince when it trickled down his throat. And he loved it. He was not quite sure why, per se, he could remember some details so vividly. After all, it wasn't often that he would write a tale in his journal about a measly trip to the saloon- the Blackwater saloon no less. No, that time was different. And she was one of the reasons why.

Hosea Matthews had always considered himself a huckster. And Arthur was not inclined to disagree. Hosea was one of the most god-damned charismatic and charming swindlers he'd ever met- which was the whole reason they had ventured into the Blackwater saloon in the first place. They were, by request of Dutch, looking for information on Josiah Trelawny. Or perhaps it was spelled Trelawney. Though- that was the point, Arthur supposed. The uncertainty.

He had always said Josiah Trelawny was a slippery bastard with a moustache far too groomed for the American West. A man who, though he considered himself a friend to the Van der Linde gang, would first and foremost have his own interests as top priority. He would disappear for months on end, sometimes. But in the end, he would always return.

Hosea, ever the smart thinker, had suggested that the best place to look for him would be in the heart of Blackwater itself. A town slowly becoming more akin to a city, as every day saw new prospers and advances that was making a name all of America was starting to recognise. If Josiah Trelawny was making a name for himself anywhere, it would be there. Hosea and Arthur deduced the saloon would be a good place to start to try and find out information... or perhaps they just wanted a drink. What the men did not expect, however, was the woman by the name of Polly Barrett.

The saloon, as expected, was bustling with songs of drunkards and fools. A jarring difference between the chill of the streets, the saloon was hot and lit by the dancing firelight of lanterns. It was sweaty, and gave an aura of a passionate summer night. The place was packed with idiots who linked arms and messily spun in circles as they danced to the live band, clinging onto their hats as they threatened to fly away. The bartender chortled through his thick beard as he clumsily wiped down glasses with a beaten rag. He was probably drunk as well, but it did not matter. That evening, there was no fighting. There was only happy and slurred shouting as men and women all enjoyed their evening of January celebrations. Everyone was blissfully celebrating. That was, everyone except the woman who sat in the corner.

The first thing Arthur noticed were her eyes. An alluring earthy brown that told of the forest and glistening copper pennies, and he was drawn in by their depth- one of a thousand untold stories. She was exquisitely dressed, with dark hair pulled back neatly and an expensive dress of captivating emerald green. Her features were delicate, yet strong at the same time and the tip of her nose was tinted rose from the cold biting at her from once being out in the cold.

But the thing that stood out to Arthur Morgan the most was the sadness in her jarringly drunken gaze.  
  
  


***  
  
  


𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 part of Arthur wanted to step forwards and confront Polly about her sudden appearance, featuring a nasty bullet wound no less, Dutch had seemingly become unsettled by her presence. He was starting to become anxious, and when Dutch became anxious his moves became unpredictable and his plans became ambitious. And this time, his ambitious plan was to rob one of Leviticus Cornwall's trains.

Now, Arthur hadn't the faintest idea who _Leviticus Cornwall_ was. But Dutch supposed there was big money involved. So he had gathered together some of the gang's men, and proposed that they make a move. Polly Barrett's arrival had caused an unscratchable itch in the gang's leader that would not be resolved until they were on the move once more. But first, they needed money. As usual.

Arthur followed close behind Dutch as he pushed open a creaking wooden door and stepped out into the white daytime sun that sent a chill down Arthur's spine. Outside stood several of the gang's men, tightly wrapped in their coats and saddling up their horses that were hitched across from the cabin Dutch emerged from. Many of them were checking their rifles and repeaters, which had been left in the cold for several nights. Dutch let out a chuckle, and Arthur could see the breath of smoke that escaped his mouth. In his hands, he clutched a large roll of parchment that held the information about the Cornwall train. "Bill," Dutch called out to the large, burly man who was stood by his great draft horse. "Now you ride ahead and set the charge. At the water tower, just before the tunnel."

"Ain't a problem," Bill responded. By the tone of his voice, Arthur could tell he was eager to shoot a fool, or blow something up. Or both.

As Arthur glanced around, he couldn't help but narrow his eyes over at Hosea who seemed to be locked in conversation with a shivering Polly. He watched her as she pulled the thick blue shawl she had been given tighter around her shoulders, and leant against the wooden doorway of the cabin she had been allowed to sleep in. She was pale still, and her eyes looked tired. Hosea, ever the talker, managed to bring a small smile out of her exhausted expression.

Then, all of a sudden, Hosea noticed Dutch's appearance. He stepped away from Polly, who subsequently retreated into herself by wrapping her arms tight around her frame. Hosea looked exasperated as he waded through the melting snow to meet Dutch as he tied the roll of parchment to the saddle of his temperamental white Arabian horse, The Count. "Why are we doing this Dutch?" Hosea asked, an edge of desperation to his voice. "The weather is beginning to clear, we could leave now. I- I thought we was lying low."

Arthur couldn't meet Hosea's eyes. Deep down, he knew the old man was right. He turned, and began to adjust the saddle on the horse he had taken from the Adler's barn, his movements slowed by the big thick blue coat he wore. He was aware of Bill shouting _"Yah!"_ , and listened to the thundering noise of the man's great draft horse galloping through the snow.

Dutch exasperatedly looked at Hosea from over The Count's back. "What do you want from me, Hosea?" He grunted.

"I just don't want any more folks to die, Dutch!" Hosea argued. "Marston has a big gash across his face, young Jack is rattled from what he's been through and we have a woman healing from a gunshot wound!"

"That woman could have been the reason we got caught, Hosea," Dutch elaborated. "But we're still here. We're _living_ , we all are. Look at me, we're living... even you."

"So all of a sudden, you're defending her?" Arthur grunted from next to his horse, slightly taken aback by Dutch's sudden defence of the woman he had been so skeptical of.

"She hasn't given us a reason not to trust her, dear boy," Dutch chuckled. Arthur squinted his eyes and turned his attention back towards his horse, prompting Dutch to continue, "but we need money. Everything we have is in Blackwater. You fancy heading back there?"

Hosea sighed and almost snapped, _"No,"_ as if it was the stupidest question in the world. Finally, Hosea's facade of anger faded away. "Listen, Dutch, I ain't trying to undermine you, I just... I just want to stick to the plan which was to lie low, then head back out west. Now suddenly, we're about to rob a train."

Dutch had one arm resting across the back of his mare, and each word he spoke was annunciated by the dancing swirls of smoke that left his mouth. Captivating and convincing, like Dutch often was. "What choice have we got?"

Hosea began to shake his head softly, as if he couldn't quite believe what was happening. "Leviticus Cornwall is no joke, Dutch-"

Arthur sighed agitatedly, "Who _is_ Leviticus Cornwall?"

"He's a big railway magnate, sugar dealer, oil man."

Dutch's expression was contaminated by sarcasm as he spoke, _"Well how good for him."_

When he saw movement in the distance, Arthur allowed his focus to shift behind Hosea and Dutch for a brief moment. His gaze narrowed when he noticed that Polly looked startled by the name. As if she recognised it; feared it. She swallowed, and her small hand lifted to her mouth where she nervously bit down on the nail of her thumb. Arthur knew that it would sit in the back of his mind for the rest of the day. _There was something suspicious about that woman_.

"Sounds like he has more than enough to share," Dutch countered.

Hosea grit his teeth. "Dutch-"

 _"Gentlemen,_ it is time to make something of ourselves."

There was a tense air as Dutch hoisted himself up over the back of his horse, with Arthur wordlessly following. Hosea lifted his navy hat off his head for a moment to readjust it, giving his floundering hands something to do. He was left without words when Dutch led the group of his finest men out to carry out, what Hosea would call, a spontaneous robbery.

A moment materialised where Arthur Morgan paused on his horse. The briefest of moments where he considered staying behind, because Arthur knew Hosea was right. He often was. Sure, the gang could use money. But at the same time, the biggest priority at their weakest time should be themselves.

They had already lost young Jenny, and Davey and Mac Callander. Sean could be dead too, for all they knew. And that was exactly the point- they didn't know. They were on the run, escaping from a group of men who had no faces- just uniforms. It was dangerous, and Hosea may have been correct in assuming that they were becoming far too comfortable.

Then there was the case of the woman. The woman seemingly from a high-class area of England who had found herself with a gunshot wound, healing in amidst of a notorious American gang. It was no coincidence, and something told Arthur that her morality could not be so dove-white that she would risk life and limb to return young Jack to them. No, he knew that there had to be an ulterior motive.

Before he kicked his new horse into a canter, Arthur slowly raised his head and was slightly taken aback when his ocean eyes met her forest eyes. Like when he had met her those months ago, her gaze was captivating. Though he could tell that there was a battle in her mind from the wavering of her line of sight. There was a demon in her soul, somewhere, and she seemed aware of it.

Arthur squinted his eyes and pressed his lips together into a thin line as she gave in to her weakness. Hosea, noticing her wobbling stance, held out an arm towards her and began to escort her back inside. As if feeling his stare, Hosea turned his head over his shoulder to look at Arthur. They were thinking exactly the same thing, Arthur was sure of it.

Polly Barrett knew far more than she was letting on.

Dutch probably was aware of it too, and Arthur could practically guess his plan. _Make her comfortable- and don't let her out of anybody's sight. We'll get the information we need when we're safe. And moved on_.

But Arthur wanted his own information out of her. He imagined Hosea did too, from the look he gave just before.

He made a mental note. That if all went to plan, and the gang was to move out to a new location the next day- Polly would be riding with Hosea and himself.

And she would have to explain _everything_.  
  
  


𝐀/𝐍

  
𝐀𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐞'𝐫𝐞 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐞 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐡𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦


	9. 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃

𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 was a brightness to the sky that Polly hadn't seen in a long time. A cooling brightness of a new day. The thickness of snow around Colter had started to diminish- but was by no means gone. Everything was still covered in a fine layer of frost, and the wind had all but calmed to a gentle morning breeze. Now, due to the bustling activity of the Van der Linde gang, Polly could make out shallow and distorted footprints in the wet mud.

She stood close to Tess' neck, running one hand behind her her ear and scratching her coarse coat of fur. Tess purred softly, having been well rested for the past couple of days. Polly imagined she had fed her poor horse enough to double her weight within the last forty-eight hours alone, but could not help the immense guilt eating away at her conscience for what she had put her through. But Tess was strong now- the same couldn't be said for Polly.

It was her twisted sense of morality that landed her in this situation to begin with. She had selfishly seen the Blackwater Massacre as a chance to escape all of her responsibilities. Then, against her best judgement, she was given the responsibility of a child's life. Leaving the child would have been akin to killing him, and she knew she wasn't that cold-hearted. But then came the gunshot. And then _her_ life was on the line. All for the sake of a child she did not know, and a notorious wanted gang.

She allowed her eyes to wander over to Abigail, the boy's mother. Polly could only assume they were the same age, yet Abigail held such a fierce and unforgiving protection for her baby that Polly could only sheepishly watch from afar. And even though she was the one to risk life and limb to bring him back to his mother, Polly could not help but feel as if it was in vain. It was like she knew, deep down, bringing Jack back to his family was for her own good. And she hated herself for it.

The gang had all of their wagons and horses lined up as a caravan, and each one was being filled with the supplies the gang had managed to retain or scavenge. Abigail marched through the stationary caravan with young Jack at her heels. Jack searched through the chaos and smiled giddily when spotting Polly, waving his tiny gloved hand at her. Polly pulled her lips into a sad smile, and lifted her hand slowly as a greeting.

She continued to watch Abigail, albeit bemused when she started to snap at a man with a large bandage covering his face. From what Polly had overheard, the fool was attacked by wolves when scouting ahead for the gang. From what Polly could assume by the tone of Abigail's voice, this was Jack's father.

 _"Miss Barrett,"_ sounded the deep and alluring voice of Dutch van der Linde. Polly turned her head and watched guardedly as he approached her, with Hosea and another man (she believed his name was Bill) right behind him. "Might I ask the name of your _fine_ mare?" He spoke with a deep chuckle.

Polly's eyes latched to his hand as he reached out to touch Tess' neck, and felt almost _betrayed_ by the soft purr that escaped her throat. "Her name is Tess," she spoke with some reluctance.

Dutch's cheeks filled with the borderline menacing smile on his face. "Would you mind, my dear, if we borrowed Tess? Great shire like this will help us out mighty fine."

Subconsciously, Polly's grip tightened around the reins of her horse. She felt a stubborn protective nature over the horse that had been by her side for years. And now that had translated in a reluctance to offer her away. But, finally, Polly sighed. "Of course not," she spoke, though her words were forced and tight.

Bill stepped forwards, his large and imposing figure towering over Polly. His shadow completely swallowed her as he held out a large calloused hand, and chortled, "She'll be good to help Brown Jack." His thick hand wrapped around the reins and tugged Tess away towards one of the wagons at the front of the caravan where a deep brown-coated Ardennes was strapped up to pull it forwards. Polly watched with a tight jaw and a twisted stomach as Bill heaved Tess' saddle off her back. She could have done that herself... if not for the gunshot wound in her stomach.

"Now, my dear," Dutch's voice broke Polly out of her glaring trance. He was stood with his head pointed downwards, yet his eyes were dangerous as they glared upwards. "I'm afraid we'll have to have a... _chat_. Once we relocate."

Polly nodded, grasping at the poncho she had been given my a Mexican man Dutch seemed to think highly of. She pulled it tighter around her body, having lost the warmth that Tess was providing her. In the end, she completely understood Dutch's skepticism about her. And despite her easily irritable nature, if explaining _some_ of her past was the way to be trusted, she knew she would have to comply with his questions. She just had to... dance around some of the truth. "I'll tell you what you need to know."

Dutch nodded slowly. "Good."

 _"Polly- Polly!"_ Came the deep accented voice of Abigail Roberts. Jack's mother had a flustered but excitable expression on her face as she quickly made her way over to Polly, effectively ending Dutch's conversation before it could continue. She marched with determination and vigour. "Would you like to ride in the wagon with Jack and I? I'd love to chat- and properly say thank you for what you've done."

Just as Polly opened her mouth to reply, a new voice sounded from over Hosea's shoulder. "Actually Abigail, Miss Barrett will be accompanying Hosea and I."

Polly narrowed her eyes at the figure of Arthur Morgan, his stunningly blue eyes searing into her soul. "Is that so?" She questioned in curiosity.

"Hosea and I would like to get to know you, 's all" He rehearsed coolly, raising his hands to light a cigarette he held between his lips. But when his eyes met hers, all she saw was suspicion- and Polly knew that Hosea and Arthur's intentions were not as lighthearted as they made appear.  
  
  


***  
  
  


𝐓𝐇𝐄 unforgiving winter sun slowly unveiled into a lighthearted springtime glow over the state of Ambarino as the caravan slowly but surely journeyed away from the freezing mountains. What was once soaking, tainted white snow had melted away into lush greenery, and Polly didn't know if she had ever been happier to see a bright yellow dandelion invading a patch of grass. She had been incredibly thankful for the deep red poncho that, she now knew his name to be Javier, had kindly given to her. Because despite having left the mountains a while ago, the glowing lushness of Ambarino was deceitful and Polly still found herself shivering every so often.

Also, she wanted to punch Arthur Morgan.

She supposed it was some sort of reckless disregard, though it may have been wholly deliberate, but Morgan was being awfully heavy handed with the reins of the two horses that pulled their wagon. Every jolting movement made Polly wince and grasp at her still healing stomach. On top of that, she had been snuggly slotted in the back of the wagon along with some of the equipment for the camp. But, in the end, she was sat on a bedroll. So it wasn't _that_ bad.

When the caravan began to descend to where Polly recognised to be Cattail Pond, Dutch threw a look over his shoulder over to the wagon where Hosea, Arthur and Polly were loaded. As to not send them flying off-road, he handed the reins off to Pearson who was sat beside him. "I'd like to know how our boy ended up in your... possession, Miss Barrett."

Polly was acutely aware of several heads turning to look at her, all with piercing gazes that demanded answers. She began to pick at her thumb nail irritably. "It was like I mentioned before. I tried to run away when everything descended to chaos. But I heard Jack, crying. Look, I might not have the kindest of hearts, but my moral code isn't destroyed enough to leave a child in a situation like that."

" _Descended to chaos_ \- Dutch, are you hearing this piss-fancy speak?" Micah snarled, full of malice towards the woman sitting dejectedly in the wagon. "You never think why a fancy _lady_ like this might be runnin' to the likes o' us?"

"You've all seen it," Polly spoke up weakly, determined not to let Micah overrule her. "The corruption in that town. I imagine that's why you chose to rob the place."

Dutch appeared impressed by her words. "You're not wrong, my dear. And I don't blame you. But we need to know how you knew to head north."

She couldn't help the sharp intake of breath that her body took. Like she knew that her words needed to be chosen _very_ carefully. She almost slapped herself on the wrist when she realised that Arthur's ears had pricked up at her reaction. "I _did_ see you leave," she started. "So I knew you hadn't gone south. But the streets became far too dangerous for us to try and escape. The police- law, I mean, we're far more concerned with putting the whole town on lockdown than chasing after all of you."

"That's a good sign, Dutch," Bill Williamson chortled excitedly.

"Maybe," Dutch's voice was skeptical. "We may be safe, _for now_. Continue, Miss Barrett."

Polly nodded lightly. "So, I waited one night. I figured it would be safer to leave then. But... clearly I was wrong. After I was shot, Jack helped me find your old camp, in Tall Trees. Figured by what you had taken, you had to have gone North."

"Now, why would you risk the boy's life like that? You could have died, and so could he." Dutch seemed angry now.

"I know- I know. My original plan was head into Strawberry, try and get some help for myself and the boy. But there was..." Polly shook her head, as if she couldn't figure it out herself. "Something wrong about it. There was law there, sure, but it was something else... I'm not sure what but I knew that _I_ had to make sure Jack was returned to where he belonged. I couldn't chance passing him on to those who would use him as leverage."

She didn't even believe the own words coming out of her mouth. In her own twisted tale, she sounded like the hero. Polly knew she was anything but.

"Strawberry, you say?" Dutch's voice had picked up in interest, and Polly nodded as an answer to his query. "Lenny! Micah! Get over here!"

Micah picked up the speed on his horse, coming to match Dutch's wagon. Lenny, a young African-American man, did the same on the opposite side. Micah peered out from underneath his white hat to look up at Dutch. "Yes boss?"

"You two ride up ahead. Make sure there's no surprises," Dutch ordered, a skeptical tone to his voice after hearing what Polly had to say. His eyes wandered over Polly's figure once more. "We've had enough of those."

"Me?" Micah spat. "With the boy?"

Dutch grunted, "Just go."

Micah huffed, kicking his horse into a canter and beginning to speed ahead of the group. He called behind him, "C'mon kid, you can buy me a whisky," and kept speeding up as if he was racing the poor boy. Lenny muttered a sheepish, _"Bye,"_ before following Micah off into the distance.

The caravan fell into silence once more, and the rumbling sounds of wheels turning were swallowed by the ambiance of the Grizzlies Forest. Polly smiled when she heard the sweet tweeting of birds overhead, sweeping between the trees. Each tree branch was lined with green needles, and the soft wind brushed against them, eliciting a light scratching noise that was more calming than Polly would have thought. As the wagons and horses all shuffled forwards, there were light noises that blended into the rhythm of the forest. Light metal clinking from saddles, faint wooden creaking, wind rattling through supplies.

Though it was silent, Polly was riddled with anxiousness, for the two men at the front of the wagon had not spoken a word to her yet. She supposed much of it was due to the poor conditions in which they had only just managed to leave behind. There was no point in questioning her when they were still trying to get out of the unforgiving mountains. But not, they were in the clear, and the gang had been silent for a while.

They rode forwards, Polly swaying from side to side with the slightly uneven movements of the wagon. Upon hearing the close noise of flowing water, Polly lifted her head to spot a shallow river crossing. She smiled at the sound of the gushing water, eyes watching the white foam of the waves fizzing with each tumbling movement. Up ahead, she could hear the squeals of the women as they were finely sprayed with freezing water when their wagon trod through the river. Part of her was wishing she could sit with them instead of the miserable bastard in front of her, but upon hearing the chastising voice of Miss Grimshaw, she was not so sure.

Subconsciously, her hand reached out to grip the side of the wagon when it began to lower into the riverbed. It was a slow slog through, but all of a sudden Polly heard a low creaking noise from her right. She looked down towards the back wheel, which had started to wobble unsteadily. "Uh, Hosea-"

Hosea had noticed only half a moment after she did, frantically slapping Arthur on the shoulder to get his attention. "Get us out of the stream."

Arthur complied, tugging on the reins to urge the horses to speed up. Hosea waved his hands loudly, "You've got to keep us moving, but _calm_!"

"Ah, _shit_!" Arthur cursed as the wagon jolted heavily.

Polly felt the snap of the back wheel, and the wagon suddenly lurched downwards. She was knocked off balance momentarily and watched as two pieces of cargo began to tumble out the back- one of which she managed to grab during its fall.

"Alright," Hosea sighed. "Let's take a look."

 _"You alright back there?"_ A voice called from up ahead.

Arthur scoffed irritably and shouted back, _"Does everything look alright?"_

As Arthur and Hosea heavily stepped down from the wagon, another voice called back. Polly recognised it as Javier. _"Well, what's going on?"_

"I broke the _goddamn_ wheel," Arthur snapped thickly.

He was followed down from the wagon by Hosea, who immediately walked around the back. He held out one hand towards Polly, who was clutching her stomach tightly as she struggled to climb down. Usually, she would murmur that she was more than capable of helping herself down. But with the dull ache in her abdomen, she was not foolish enough to deny his hand. She breathed out a smile in gratitude as she took his hand, and leant some of her weight onto him to agonisingly land on the rocky ground. "Alright," Hosea chirped. "Let's get it fixed."

"You need help?" Javier called out. Polly stepped over to the side, feeling entirely useless in that moment. She caught the gaze of the Native-American man, to which he sent her a smile, as he made his way over to help the three of them with their predicament. She had found his name out to be Charles.

"I reckon we can handle it," Hosea sang optimistically.

Arthur brushed past Polly to move towards the wheel, shifting her poncho slightly out of place. Her hands moved to correct it's position, eyes trailing after his figure as he bent down to pick up the wheel before turning back to watch Hosea and Charles with their lower backs pressed against the wagon. They were squatted down, ready to lift if off the ground. "Alright Charles," Hosea said. "You and me hold the thing up while you try and put the wheel back on Arthur."

If she had to be completely honest, Polly felt wholly useless in that moment. Stood off to the side, trying to ignore the dull ache in her stomach. She could not help but watch the three men. Hosea and Charles clenching their jaws as they took the weight of the wagon in their bodies- though Charles seemed to have no problem in doing so. Arthur, with the front of his thick winter coat open and swept behind his holsters in order to keep it out of the way as he rolled the wheel through the slightly wet mud towards it's empty slot. Polly huffed and fiddled with the end of Javier's poncho.

"You still strong enough to hold up a wagon?" Arthur pressed Hosea with a mild insult. His words were raised over the noise of the creaking wagon.

"Shut up," Hosea quipped.

"I'm just saying!"

Hosea grunted slightly under the weight he bore. "Well, say less."

Polly watched Arthur as his throat let out a breathy strain whilst he lifted the large wooden wheel. From beside him, Hosea called, "Pick the wheel up!".

Finally, Arthur had managed to set it into place and he shuffled his feet in order to press his shoulder against the wheel that was barely hanging on. With a loud grunt, he pulled away before throwing his bodyweight through his shoulder and into the wheel. The wheel managed to jolt further into place, though not far enough and so Arthur repeated his actions.

"Nearly there," Hosea commented, his balance wavering with each time Arthur pushed the wheel further into its position.

It did not take long for Arthur to step back and examine his work, and he nodded towards Hosea and Charles who consequently allowed the wagon to settle back down onto the ground, with the wooden structure letting out a deep groan.

"See," Arthur spoke, his gait becoming relaxed. "You ain't so useless after all."

Hosea let out a loud and amused chuckle, pressing his hands into his lower back to stretch out the tightness in his spine. "Not quite," he commented lightheartedly, as the three men began to load the wagon back up with the dropped supplies.

Polly took that as her cue to walk back over towards the three men, however, just as she was about to bend down and pick up a small wooden lockbox, her gaze was captured by something in the horizon. Up above, on one of the tall cliffs, the warm yellow sunlight was swallowed and dispersed by a layer of thick and unyielding fog. Yet at the epicentre, stood at the edge of the cliff, were three silhouetted figures that Polly could not _quite_ make out.

Upon noticing her distracted gaze, Hosea looked questioningly towards Polly's figure. But upon realising she was not about to turn anytime soon, he decided to follow her line of attention and he too noticed the figures stood up above. 

He stepped forwards, and upon doing so gained the attention of both Charles and Arthur. Hosea brought a hand up to cusp his chin whilst Arthur and Charles watched pointedly from their positions leant against the wagon. Polly squinted her eyes and folded her arms, a weak attempt to try and distinguish just _who_ the figures were.

"What you think?" Arthur asked lowly, his arm reaching into the wagon to try and fix one of the items of cargo into place.

The fog began to dissolve, and doing so allowed Polly to realise that she recognised the men as part of one of the Native Tribes. She frowned from over Hosea's shoulder.

From beside her, she felt movement and a quick glance told her that Charles had stepped away from the wagon to stand just beside her. "If they wanted trouble, we wouldn't have seen them," he explained cooly.

Hosea, ever the optimist, raised one hand as a meek greeting towards the three men that looked down upon them. "Poor bastards," he muttered, turning his head towards the three that stood behind him. "We really screwed them over down here."

They fell into silence for a moment, Polly risking a glance back up towards the three men and blinking at their impassiveness. Charles shuffled on his feet, and took his hands out of the pockets of his black tweed winter coat. 

"C'mon," Hosea sighed. "Let's not push our luck."

Arthur and Charles bent down to pick up the two final pieces of cargo that had fallen from the wagon. Whilst doing so, Arthur asked, "What happened?"

"Well," Hosea spoke. "Get in, and I'll tell you."

Both Hosea and Arthur moved back around the front of the wagon to climb on. Charles, however, effortlessly leapt up onto the back of the wagon where Polly was once sat. But instead of sitting, Charles turned and held out his hand towards her, muttering a heartfelt, "Here."

Polly couldn't help but smile in gratitude, and steadily placed her left hand into his. Her other hand gathered her skirts as she placed one foot onto the bottom of the wagon. She almost gasped when Charles, with almost no effort, pulled her up onto the wagon with him. "Thank you, Charles," she breathed, settling down just opposite him on the large rolled-up tent which had taken the spot of the bedroll she once sat on. Not that she was complaining.

"It's not too far now," Hosea commented as Arthur took the reins in his hands once more. "Stay on this trail. We'll follow the river then cut left inland."

The wagon moved forwards again, this time with significantly less creaking. Polly sighed as she stared off into the distance, smiling at the lush trees and marvellous mountains stretching miles ahead. It was a vast difference from being stuck in the _smog_ and the _shit_ of Blackwater. Of course, there was the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach that told her just around those mountains, to the South-West, lay the town she had fled from. Nothing she could do would change that. She wondered how long it would be before her disappearance was noted, and she could only hope that she had been presumed dead.

"So... yes," Hosea sighed, beginning to explain what he had promised and subsequently causing Polly to turn her attention towards him. "The Indians in these parts got sold a very raw deal. This is the Heartlands we're going into, good farming and grazing country- they lost it all. Stolen clean away from them it was, every blade of grass. Killed or herded up to the reservations in the middle of nowhere."

"And how's that different from anywhere else?" Charles commented. 

"Well," Hosea spoke up. "Maybe it's not. I just heard some of the army out here was particularly, uh... unpleasant about it."

"Unpleasant? How do you rob and kill people pleasantly?" Charles questioned. "We don't, in spite of Dutch's talk."

Polly frowned at Charles' words. In truth, she did not quite know what she had expected when encountering one of the supposed most dangerous gangs of the surrounding states. But she could confirm, however, that she had not expected the majority of the gang members to have such a strict moral code. In fact, many of the members of Dutch van der Linde's gang were those who she would never bat an eye towards in her day to day life. People who just seemed... normal. Charles seemed to be one of the most progressive, level-headed men that Polly had ever met.

She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, thinking back to two days prior when the gang had made a move to rob the train. Polly was not stupid, and she did not miss the way in which Arthur Morgan saw straight through her impassive facade. Because she _did_ in fact know Leviticus Cornwall. And she didn't know if she saw much point in denying it. It was this that urged her to speak up, clipping her words before she could regret it. "You shouldn't have robbed Cornwall's train."

The three men turned to look at her, though Arthur did for not longer than one moment due to his focus being on driving the wagon into a wooden bridge. Surprise was etched onto their faces, though Polly could not infer if it was from the content of her statement or the fact that she had said it in the first place.

"Oh?" Arthur's curiosity peaked. "And why's that Ms Barrett?"

Polly sighed, nodding towards Hosea. "You say the Indians have been driven out of the Heartlands? But do you know who is behind most of it?"

"Well judging by that tone o' yours, I'd say it's our friend Leviticus Cornwall," Arthur grumbled after taking another quick glance back at her, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe the spontaneous move the gang had made to pick a fight with one of the most powerful men in the states.

Polly nodded slowly, even though only Charles and Hosea were looking towards her with tilted heads. "Yes, the man has been telling the state that he has plans of modernisation. He's managed to take control of a lot of their reservation land. I don't suppose any of you gentlemen have heard of Cornwall Kerosene and Tar?"

It seemed as though something lit up inside of Hosea's mind, as his posture straightened. "No, no, I've heard that before somewhere..."

"It's an oil refinery... just east of Valentine, I think. There's plans to start drilling for oil in the reservation's land soon."

Charles scoffed. "All of that for a bit of oil."

Polly couldn't help but frown again. She repeated his words, tainted with disappointment, _"All for a bit of oil."_

The four fell into silence once more, and Polly began to hear the noises of squawking birds overhead. Larger birds, soaring in flocks. The trees no longer had sharp needles lining their branches, but instead had large and lush green leaves fluttering in the wind. 

"Hold on," Arthur spoke up, interrupting Polly's blissful moment of quiet. "Now how the hell do you know so goddamn much about Cornwall? I ain't even ever heard his name 'fore two days ago."

Polly grunted, "I dealt with a lot of paperwork when I was in Blackwater. Most of it was non-disclosure so-"

"I'm afraid you'll have to simplify your words for our thick-headed driver dear."

_"Hosea-"_

Polly laughed lightly. "Just... I was employed by a West Elizabeth State service. I oversaw a lot of the contracts that came through and Mr Cornwall's name was on half of them. Like I said, Blackwater is full of corruption."

"That happen to be the reason you was drinkin' to your death a few months ago?" Arthur pressed. Hosea sighed at his head-on approach to their confrontation with Polly all that time ago.

Charles furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, turning his head from Polly's glaring expression to Hosea and Arthur's figures up front. Hosea had rested one arm across the back of the bench up front, his expression mildly irritated. Charles cleared his throat. "Hold on, you know each other?"

It was Hosea that answered him. "Arthur and I met Miss Barrett in the Blackwater saloon uh, a couple of months back."

"Yes." Polly saw no reason to deny it. "And I was drinking because that's the only thing you can do when you're stuck in a place like that. Even if it's for a few hours of blissful ignorance, and I wake up feeling like a pile of _cow_ _shit_ \- it's worth it to just forget."

"Well I can't argue with that," Hosea sent her a cautious smile, effectively ending the conversation there and then which she silently thanked him for. "And as I was saying before about this Cornwall-Indian malarkey, I'm afraid I was simply trying to simplify things for our block-headed driver here."

"Are you going to keep insultin' me? Never forget, this here's a conman- born and bred. Just cause he sounds fancy doesn't mean he knows a damn thing about what he's talkin' about."

Once more, the four paused their conversation for a bit. Polly recognised the area in which they were riding up upon as Caliban's Seat, a wide valley surrounded by towering white cliffs with the Dakota River gently tumbling through the centre. She hadn't laid eyes on this area of the Heartlands for a long time...

"So," Arthur spoke up with a questioning tone to his voice. "What happened to your tribe?"

Charles let out a breath from his nose, and settled his hands beside him for balance when the wagon jolted over a small hump in the road. "I don't even know if I have one... least not that I can remember. My father was a coloured man, they told me he lived with our people for a while- a number of free men did, but... when we were forced to move from our lands, the three of us fled. I was too young to really remember much. All my life I've been on the run."

"Sounds tough..." Polly sighed sadly.

"Hmm, it got worse," Charles looked to her for a moment. "A couple years later, some soldiers captured my mother, took her somewhere. We never saw her again... We drifted around. He was a very sad man and the drink had a mean hold on him. Around thirteen, I just took off on my own."

"That was about the age we found young Arthur here, maybe a little older," Hosea commented, and Polly couldn't help her eyes widening at the realisation of just how _long_ Arthur had been part of this gang. "A wilder delinquent you never did see. But he learned fast."

Arthur spoke up, "Not as fast as Marston, apparently."

"Who's that?" Polly asked.

"The idiot with the big bandage on 'is greasy head," Arthur answered her, eliciting a small chuckle from the woman.

Charles was laughing along with Polly. "I don't get it," he spoke. "What's the problem between you two?"

 _"Arthur?"_ Hosea pushed, as if he himself was tired of hearing it.

"I..." Arthur lengthened the note of his speech. "It's a long story. We still heading the right way?"

Hosea huffed. "That depends. Are we still heading west, in search of fortune and repose in virgin forests, as we planned? No. Are we heading in the correct direction on our desperate escape from the law eastwards down the mountains? _Yes_ , I believe so."

"Wow," Polly commented quietly, it being the only words she could muster in response to _just_ what she had gotten herself into.

" _Wow, indeed_ , Miss Barrett," Hosea joined her rhythm.

"Would you just-" Polly stopped herself before her statement sounded rude. "Call me Polly."

Hosea lifted his hands in mock surrender, smiling to her, "As you wish, Polly."

"So," Charles joined in. "You know this area well then?"

"Eh, so so. I've been through a couple of times. Valentine, where Polly mentioned before, it's a livestock town not too far from here. Cowboys, outlaws, working girls- our kind of place."

Polly raised her eyebrows at that, and shifted in her seat uncomfortably. Charles, noticing this, pinched his eyebrows together and motioned to her in a manner that Polly knew he was asking if she was okay. She gave him a weak smile, and shook her head quietly. 

"O'Driscolls?" Arthur asked.

Hosea nodded. "Probably them too."

_"Pinkertons?"_

"Let's hope not."

"And this place we're going," Arthur continued. "Wait... what's it called again?"

Polly was more than happy for the change of topic, as the gang seemed more in line with the business that she needed to avoid than she originally hoped. She willed, for her sake, that the Pinkertons were not composed of the men she had... encountered before in Blackwater. If so, she was a dead woman. 

"Horseshoe Overlook," Hosea had answered finally.

Arthur frowned. "It's a good place to lie low?"

"It'll do for now. And- how low do you think Dutch is really going to lie?" Hosea questioned. It's just... you know, maybe it's me who's changed, not him, but we kept telling him that ferry job didn't feel right. You and me had a real lead in Blackwater that could've worked out."

"Maybe..."

Polly scoffed lightly. "From what you both so _blatantly_ told me in that saloon- you did."

Arthur scowled, and elbowed Hosea. "I told you we shouldn't've said anything to her."

"Well, she didn't do anything wrong," Hosea defended her. "It just isn't like Dutch to lose his head like that."

"Things go wrong sometimes." Arthur's expression suddenly turned sour as he continued, "People die. It's the way it is, always has been. Me, you, Dutch... we've all been in this line of work a long time and we're still here, so... I figure we must've got it right a helluva lot more than we got it wrong."

The wagon began to climb a steep rocky incline, causing all four passengers to jolt uncomfortably. To her frustration, the shuffling caused another jolting pain through her stomach, and she grabbed it with a curse. Charles watched over her, and asked if she was okay to which she brushed him off quickly, muttering that she was fine.

They turned in towards a group of lush trees, and Polly could just make out the figure of Javier from in amongst them. He was rid of the poncho he wore, and his hands were curled around a rifle as he leaned against a tree. When he spotted the four approaching in the wagon, he smiled and pushed away from the tree with his foot. "There you are, brother! Head in there, and follow the track for a little bit."

"Thanks," Arthur muttered lowly.

"Slow up, I'll jump on," Javier called, with Arthur responding immediately by slowing down the wagon to a gentle stop. Javier leapt onto the wagon's back, sending a charismatic toothy smile to Polly on board as he motioned for Arthur to keep moving.

Arthur slapped down the reins gently and the horses began to pull the wagon forwards through a narrow pathway of the trees. Polly raised her eyebrows, impressed and intrigued by the hidden alcove that was the location of the gang's new camp.

"Any trouble getting in here, Javier?" Hosea asked.

"Nah, it went well. This is a good spot."

"Excellent. I think this will work for us, Arthur. For now, anyway."

Finally, after hours of travel, the wagon finally broke through the tree line, accompanied by the sweet noises of tweeting birds. The gang's caravan had been split up to form a ring of tents and supply stations, with a campfire at the centre. Polly could already see the figure of Miss Grimshaw shouting orders about the camp members, but frowned when noticing that most of the chastising was aimed at the few women of camp. It was warm, and Polly found herself quickly shuffling out of Javier's poncho to allow herself to be swallowed by the springtime air.

Springtime told of new beginnings. And for Polly, it was exactly that. This was her chance to escape the life she was forced to endure previously. Her chance to start fresh, with people who did not know her past. Away from all those before who had manipulated her, and used her. 

But deep down, Polly knew that it couldn't be that easy. There was no way of escaping her demons, and if she was not presumed dead in the Blackwater massacre then surely she would not be safe for long. 

For it was not one group of individuals she had to watch out for- but two. Two equally dangerous and violent groups of men that worked in two very different ways. All she could do was hope she would be forgotten.

It was Charles that snapped her out of her worried daze, by holding out one hand towards her which she graciously accepted as an aid for her to step down from the wagon. The two of them walked forwards to stand with Javier, Arthur and Hosea.

"Well," Hosea sighed, stretching his arms to gesture over the evening sun shining on Horseshoe Overlook. "Welcome home, everybody."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𝐀/𝐍
> 
> 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐊𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦 :)
> 
> 𝐈 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐨𝐝 𝐈'𝐦 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞.
> 
> Word Count: 6047


	10. 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐄 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊

𝟗 | 𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑 had decided, after a week or so of contemplating, that he didn't _quite_ mind Horseshoe Overlook.

Sure, the coffee tasted like shit and Pearson's stews weren't exactly up to par due to the fairly small amount of game that had been brought in; and _oh_ would Pearson let Arthur know that he could go and hunt a decent deer- _loudly_ and _often_. On top of that, the new camp was quite aptly named Horseshoe _Overlook_ , for the edge of the camp was nothing more than a sheer cliff drop. It meant, much to the annoyance of many of the gang members, that retrieving water from down by Dakota River was a momentous and arguably over-complicated task- a momentous and arguably over-complicated task that _Arthur_ would often end up being left with.

But, in the end. Arthur decided he _really_ didn't mind. For the view from the clifftop more than made up for it.

Horseshoe Overlook was beautifully secluded, with a ring of trees protecting it from prying eyes of passers-by. The grass was a lush springime green, and the air fresh and clean. Birds were chirping sweet lullabies overhead as they too fled from the freezing cold of the Ambarino mountains, down south.

Which of course, wasn't the original plan. But since the complete catastrophe several weeks back at Blackwater, with all things considered, Horseshoe Overlook wasn't the _worst_ place to end up. With a view stretching over the clifftops of the northern mountains, it was truly a picturesque landscape that one could sit and stare at for hours.

The gang were set up in a ring around the clearing, with Dutch's tent at the far centre. In the very middle of camp was a small fire, that would often roar to life come dusk. There had already been a few nights in which four or so members of the gang would stay up late and share stories, passing around a bottle of whiskey and forgetting that they were wanted men and women. But as much as the gang was like his family- Arthur had to admit that sometimes it all became too much, everyone stuck together in one place. The arguing between Abigail and Marston; Miss Grimshaw's incessant barking of orders- and God help anybody that had to listen to Reverend Swanson's _agonisingly_ irritating singing.

It was why Arthur often found himself spending nights away from camp. Tucked away in a small alcove with nothing but the company of his horse and a tiny spitting fire. It was quiet, and peaceful, and sometimes all Arthur Morgan needed was to be alone. Sometimes he was gone for a few days at a time. The gang was used to it by then.

When Arthur did decide to spend his time at camp, he made sure to sit off to the side, away from any activity that he wasn't required to participate in. And, in fact, he had found a nice spot. Just off to the right upon entering the clearing, where a few trees were scattered in the main camp along with several smooth grey rocks laying in the grass. It was a calm spot where Arthur could sit with his cup of shitty coffee and scribble in his journal.

Unfortunately, _she_ had discovered it too.

On the ninth day of settling into Horseshoe Overlook, there was a light orange glow to the morning sky. It was a hopeful and sweet sunrise, and to the absolute _luck_ of Arthur, the only person he could see up and active was Charles, who was sat by the smouldering main campfire whittling a group of arrows he had set down by his feet. The two men gave nothing more than a nod to greet one another as Arthur began to make a coffee by the fire. When lifting up his cup, he also caught sight of Leopold Strauss, who seemed to be organising and restocking the medical wagon.

Arthur wandered back over to his own wagon, which was stockpiled with as much ammunition as the gang had managed to salvage or save over the last few weeks. When his eyes wandered over his belongings, comprised of old pictures and letters, he froze. In the end, he was relieved that the only thing he was left without from the previous camp was money. But even then, upon staring at his sentimental belongings, he couldn't help but drink his entire coffee in two big gulps. As if it was a poignant alcohol that would cleanse his mind of his own rambling thoughts. He huffed out of his nose, and felt his chest compress tightly.

Deciding that he could not be bothered to wash his cup in that moment, he set it down on the small wooden table beside his bedroll and moved his hands to pull his satchel out of where it had been tucked safely underneath the thickness of the sheets. His hands moved to flip open the top, satisfied seeing his journal untouched, laying inside.

Throwing the strap of his satchel over his shoulder, Arthur began to trudge his way through the camp. The coffee hadn't particularly fuelled his energy, and so his movements were slightly sluggish. He moved silently across the camp, past Strauss' medical wagon, trying to make as little noise as possible. Thankfully, his footsteps were mostly swallowed by the spongy grass and dry mud.

He made it over to his spot, pausing to stare wistfully across the landscape. He could still see the remnants of the swirling storm across the jagged Ambarino mountaintops, violent white wind falling over the deep grey rocky terrain. In fact, he was so absorbed by the atmosphere that he did not see the figure of the woman, sat just behind him with her back pressed up against the rough bark of a tree.

"Mister Morgan," she spoke flatly.

Arthur was ever so slightly startled, but his rough exterior did not display such emotion. He sighed, deeply. "Miss Barrett..." Turning to look at her, he saw her boot-clad feet poking out from under the rough tear at the bottom of her skirts, one crossed over the other. At first, he thought it was so that she appeared calm and cool, but a quick realisation that she still was gripping onto her freshly bandaged stomach told him much differently. He nodded towards her abdomen, "How you doing?"

"Well," she sighed loudly. "Seeing as there's a _hole_ in my stomach, I'd say things are going great- all things considered."

Arthur raised one eyebrow, and tucked his thumbs into his belt loops. "Well, it ain't even a hole. Strauss cauterised it."

" _Mmm_. You're a comedian." Polly's smile was overbearingly sarcastic as she stared up at Arthur with squinted eyes and a tilted head. "Strauss? He's the..." She trailed off.

"German feller that deals with all our seedy loans?" Arthur glanced over towards where Leopold Strauss was sat by his desk, scribbling down signatures and figures that Arthur was convinced were maybe _slightly_ unorthodox. "Yeah."

Polly pursed her lips. "Good to know."

It was then Arthur debated leaving. It was a nice day for hunting, and he could have quite easily decided to jump on the back of the horse he had taken from Alder Ranch- which he still had not given a name- and ride off to bring back a nice deer. It would be a good way to stop Pearson's nagging, for a while at least. But then, Arthur paused, realising that this was the first time that he had managed to speak to Polly on her own. There was _nobody_ stopping him from asking the questions he wanted answered. And so, with that, he stepped forwards. Polly's glistening copper eyes watched him warily as he lowered himself onto a nearby rock, and rested his arms onto his knees. It was silent, for a moment, before Arthur spoke. "You didn't mention the... nature of your... uh... _business,_ in Blackwater."

Polly swallowed, rubbing her thumb over the white material of her bandage. "I didn't. Is that _such_ a problem?"

Arthur actually chuckled out loud at the nature of her tone. "Miss Barrett, you're travellin' with a _wanted_ gang now. Forgive us for being _curious_ about how convenient this all seems for you."

He watched as she ran her tongue over her bottom lip, jaw tight. "It appears Hosea may overestimate your buffoonery."

"Do you _ever_ get to the point?" Arthur asked irritably.

"When I want to," she blinked. She froze for a moment, as if she was allowing one thousand thoughts to enter her mind, before Arthur physically _saw_ the sigh leave her chest. "I dealt with... possible... _unfair_ business deals, and the like. I wouldn't ask questions, they would pay me, and nobody would have suspected an unassuming English woman to be part of bad trade. It's not something I'm proud of, but I needed money."

Arthur paused and scanned her figure casually. He allowed her words to sink in. _They_. _Wouldn't_. _Would_. Uncertainties- all alluding to the fact that Polly Barrett was a _liar_. Arthur smiled. "You know, I can smell bullshit from a mile off, Miss Barrett. And right now, it's startin' to stink."

Her jaw tightened violently, and her eyes bore into his own. As if she was testing him, or prodding him to back down.

But Arthur didn't. His triumphant smile did not disappear as he leant forwards and looked down upon her figure. "Give me one reason I should trust you."

This time, Polly was the one to smile. "I expect you know what it's like to want out of something Mister Morgan?"

Arthur's smile faltered for a moment as the two held their gazes, both daring the other to look away. Nobody moved, and Arthur sneered. "You know jack-all about what I feel, Miss Barrett."

The woman raised one eyebrow cooly. "That's not what you told me in Blackwater Saloon that night."

There was a pregnant pause as Arthur suddenly felt a small sense of vulnerability in front of the young woman. He felt, in a sense, pathetic. Somehow, this woman whom he had only encountered several times seemed to have a strange understanding of his own mind, as he did with her. Arthur liked to think of himself as a private person, with not even Dutch knowing some of the biggest demons in his miserable life. But as he stared into Polly's all-knowing eyes, it was as if she could see right through him. His mouth twitched angrily.

Polly took that as her cue to begin talking again. But this time, she allowed Arthur to see a side of her that she had not previously shown. A more real, and human set of emotions that were not so meticulously cold-hearted and thought through. "I was trapped there," she admitted sadly. "And... I selfishly saw the massacre as my chance of escape from it all. They would have assumed me dead, and I could start a new life, free, with the money I had saved. Somewhere far away. Maybe back home... eventually. But I couldn't just leave a child to die..." She paused again, pondering over her own words, and dropped her gaze to the ground. "Abigail thinks I'm a blessing- but saving Jack... I _know_ that was for my own benefit. It was _selfish_ , and I'm a selfish person."

Arthur ran his tongue along his bottom teeth, and allowed his eyes to fall down to the floor. Finally, he sighed. "You ain't selfish, Miss Barrett." He saw Polly look towards him with a tilted head and a questioning glance. "You knew full-well that we was a wanted gang. And that we wouldn't let you leave once you was here. You sacrificed your freedom to bring young Jack home. It don't make you selfish. It makes you quite th'opposite really."

"Arthur-"

He winced. "Would you just _take_ the _damn_ compliment."

She smiled. Though this time, Arthur knew it was real. She was distracted for a moment, before realisation settled on her face and she exclaimed, "Oh!" loudly. Arthur's eyes widened tremendously as she reached down with her right arm- and slipped it _under_ her skirts. He looked away with confusion written all over his face as she rustled around underneath, and Arthur's mind wandered to fifty different places just _imagining_ what she was doing. Finally Arthur heard the click of metal and couldn't help but turn back in curiosity to see her holding a _gun_ in her hand.

Arthur pinched his eyebrows together accusingly. "Where _t'hell_ did you get that?"

"I took it from my office for protection, I-"

Arthur had already reached across and snatched the revolver out of her hands, his fingers brushing against her soft skin for half a moment. He ran his thumb along the barrel and squinted his eyes in annoyance. "It's rusted to hell!"

"I'm not exactly a gunslinger, Arthur!" Polly defended, a protective twang to her tone.

Arthur scoffed. "This is a _nice_ gun- you've gone and ruined it."

"Well, just..." her voice trailed off. "Clean it, keep it- _I don't know_. I'm not going to do anything with it now."

Polly frowned as she watched Arthur spin the revolver effortlessly around his pointer finger before holding it tightly. Her eyes followed his movements as he slid the gun into the waistband of his trousers. "I'm headin' out," he told her. He pondered over his next words for a second. "Is there anything I can keep an eye out for, for you?"

"A new pen," she spoke without much hesitation. Arthur raised an eyebrow in question, and she elaborated. "Mine's ran out. And since I can't leave this camp without supervision..."

Arthur rolled his eyes and began to spin on his heel, deciding to taunt her some more. "I'll keep my eye out, _your majesty_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𝐈 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐃𝐑𝟐 𝐦𝐚𝐩 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈'𝐦 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐀𝐥𝐬𝐨, 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐨 𝐨𝐧 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐨 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐈'𝐦 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐈-
> 
> 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈'𝐦 𝐚 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐔𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐔𝟒 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲'𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐂𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐔𝟑. 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐥


	11. 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐓𝐘, 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄

𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘

𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘 had decided, after three weeks or so of contemplating, that she was absolutely _sick_ of Horseshoe Overlook.

Sure, with all things considered, the Van der Linde gang had been particularly lenient with her. A woman with a seemingly grey grasp of morality had _very_ conveniently arrived at their doorstep with a bargaining chip in the form of their own little boy. If her intentions were as wholly pure as they seemed, the gang was obliged to let her stay. After all, Polly had made it clear that she had no will of returning to the corruption of Blackwater. But- if her intentions were not so pure, if she was a possible dangerous informant for the very people that the gang were now running from, the gang were _forced_ to keep her in sight at all times.

It seemed that they were tip-toeing on the line in between. Whether it be a curious stretching gaze from those passing by, or a faint nearby whisper, Polly knew that her every move was being watched. 

The morning sun illuminated Horseshoe Overlook with a dewy, fresh glow that gave an aura of sweetness- especially when accompanied by the light chirping of flocks of birds overhead. Polly was perched on a smooth grey rock by the edge of camp, elbow resting on her knee and hand supporting the weight of her head. By her feet sat a book that had kindly been offered to her by a woman named Mary-Beth. She had read it before, back on her family estate in England, but she accepted it nonetheless. Her ears pricked up upon hearing the shuffling feet of some members of the gang, as they began to awaken for the day. She shivered briefly as an intense morning chill shot down her spine.

Polly allowed herself to watch the mindless activity around camp with a sigh. She brought up her free hand to begin twirling the wisps of hair framing her face around her finger. Her eyebrows squinted as she caught sight of the boy across camp who was tied tightly to one of the large trees. An O'Driscoll, apparently. Another gang that Polly had encountered a few times before, in her work. Though he constantly denied it. She would feel bad for him, but his groaning had started to irritate her so much that she had started to sit across the opposite side of camp. The view was not as nice, and it was closer to the clattering of activity- but it was better than the O'Driscoll boy's incessant whining.

Or so she thought.

 _Uncle_ , as he was referred to by both the gang and himself, was an outwardly appearing idle and inept old man. Often subject to hollering belittlement from many who walked by as he would lackadaisically toss back _bottle_ after _bottle_ of beer. His beard was full, packed with rough grey hairs that Polly had often spotted a crumb, or two- or _thirteen_ \- clinging to. Puffy red skin stretched over his face, with a billowing round nose that matched his ample belly... which Polly could currently see poking out from underneath his dirty shirt as he snored loudly, sitting upright against one of the camp's wagons.

Polly could not help but squint her gaze at the old man as she watched his chest rise and fall unevenly. Each one of his snores came out loudly, and at a moment she could not predict. Sometimes, Polly would wait with baited breath as his chest failed to move, but would exhume a grunt when his throat released a tearing snore and betrayed the fact that he _was_ , in fact, still alive.

Then, Polly caught glimpse of a dreadfully unimpressed Arthur Morgan strolling around the back of the wagon. On his head, he wore his signature gambler hat, and his torso was clothed in a simple sky-blue shirt. His thumbs curled into his belt loops as he took cool steps towards Uncle, and looked down upon the man with a raised eyebrow.

After a moment of what seemed like an inner debate, Arthur allowed his arms to fall down by his sides. Then, Polly was forced to hold back a loud laugh as the man suddenly leapt up and kicked Uncle _hard_ in the side of his leg.

 _"Ah- ugh!"_ Uncle yelled in surprise, instantly awakening and unfolding his arms and legs. _"Woah!"_

Arthur scoffed. "Careful not to work yourself to death there, Uncle."

"I was thinking!" Uncle whined loudly, groaning as he attempted to push himself into a standing position. He had to lean one arm against the wagon to do so, and his back curved as he eyed Arthur from underneath the brim of his worn hat.

"Yeah," Arthur brushed him off, not even suggesting with his unimpressed tone that he believed a single word that left the old-man's gob. He prodded, "Does it pay well?"

"Oh... well," Uncle groaned. "Eventually."

Arthur chuckled, slapping Uncle on the back with a dull thudding noise as the latter winced and raised one hand towards his head. Polly watched from the corner of her eye as Arthur pushed Uncle forwards. "So, while the rest of us are busy... stealin', killin', lyin'- _fightin'_ to try to survive, _you_ get to _think_ all day."

"Well," Uncle's voice raised in pitch, like a canary singing out a false tune. "It's a strange world we live in, Arthur Morgan."

Morgan's head began to shake, and he turned so that his back faced Polly. "You want to head into town? See if we can find anything out?"

Polly no longer bothered trying to hide her gaze, instead turning her head fully as her ears pricked up and latched onto the way Arthur's voice drawled over every single word.

Uncle quickly agreed, "Sure, I got some errands to run."

"Great," Arthur confirmed. Then, his arm pointed over towards the hitching posts, where the gang's horses were grazing on the small patches of vibrant grass. Curving her head on an angle was enough for Polly to spot Tess, alone, pawing at the ground. Arthur nodded towards the animals, "Go get the horses ready."

Uncle growled loudly in protest, hands forming fists as he marched away.

There was a brief moment where Polly weighed her options out, her lips twisting in thought. It was only when Arthur turned to walk away that she suddenly grabbed her book from the floor and stood. She was so fast, her feet almost tripped over one another, and she cursed under her breath as she glared at her own boots. "Mister Morgan!" she called.

Up ahead, Arthur froze in place. Polly could only see his back, and watched as his muscles tightened and his shoulders slumped back. She did not progress any further towards him, and instead waited for him as he _very_ slowly turned around and met her eyes. There was about a tent's distance between the two, and so Polly swallowed and took a single step forwards. She was aware of Arthur's waterfall eyes lingering on her every move.

"Can I help you, Miss Barrett?" he asked, there was a thin element of irritation poisoning his tone.

Polly quickly wet her lips with her tongue, and brought her book to cover her chest as she wrapped both arms around her torso. "Yes, actually. You can take Tess, to pull the wagon. She's getting irritated being stuck in camp."

Arthur's jaw twitched, and he ran his tongue along the back of his top teeth before nodding slowly. "Okay, will do."

"And I'm sick of being stuck in here as well," Polly blurted thickly, unable to hold back her irritation. She scowled silently as Arthur rolled his eyes. "Come on- I've been here for over three weeks and the only time I've left this bloody clearing is to have a piss! Besides, I need new bandages- and it's not like nobody is going to be watching over me-"

" _Fine!_ Would you just- shut up about it?" Arthur threw his head in exasperation. 

Prodding him further, Polly raised her eyebrows tersely. She huffed and spun on her heels, tossing the book to land flat on top of the rock she was once perched on. Her steps had lightened, and Polly found herself almost skipping away towards where Uncle was tugging one of the persistent Belgian Draft horses away from the hitching post with a disgruntled urge.

"Uncle!" Polly called, gaining the old idiot's attention. 

He searched frantically for the voice's source, and his thick, wiry eyebrows sunk in question when spotting the _new foreign woman_ approaching him. "Wha'chu want?"

She payed no mind to his abruptness, and marched past him with certain steps towards Tess, who instantly exhaled a pleased neigh upon spotting her. "I'm coming with you," Polly explained with a heaving sigh from her chest. She grunted with effort as her hands worked to unbuckle the leather straps of Tess' saddle, and stretched up to pull it from her horse's back. It took Polly much longer than she would have liked, and she looked far stupider than she hoped as the saddle successfully lay into her arms. "Strap Tess up to the wagon."

"Who's Tess?" Uncle asked, voice gravelly.

Polly paused in her tracks, and turned her head to look towards the dull old man. "My horse?" Her words were phrased almost questioning, as if she couldn't quite believe his incompetence. 

"Ah, good," Uncle sighed, instantly dropping the reins of the horse he was attempting to wrangle. "Strap 'er up then."

A loud scoff almost left her throat, but Polly managed to diffuse it with a tightening of her jaw. _"I just asked you to..."_ But her words were pointless, for Uncle had already heaved himself up onto the front bench and left her to do the labour. She imagined that she should have seen that coming.

***

𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄 was a quaint little town, in Polly's opinion. As she sat in the back of the wagon amongst three of the women from camp (all of whom had begged Arthur to let them come along) she payed them no mind. Instead, she was busy soaking in the fresh springtime air that caused leaves and bushes to rustle. She could not remember the last time she had watched over an honest town... well. _Honest_ may not have been the correct word to use, but so far, Valentine seemed to have remained the livestock town it was built as- and it was admirable to see.

On the short journey through the heartlands towards Valentine, the group had been subject to the girlish singing from three of the ladies- Tilly Jackson, Karen Jones and Mary-Beth Gaskill. Whilst Polly sat in silence, subject to the teasing of Karen on few occasions, part of her secretly enjoyed the flamboyant enjoyment the girls were having. 

Tilly Jackson was a pretty African-American girl whom Polly assumed to be a few years her junior. Dressed in a sunflower-yellow dress, she appeared the epitome of sweetness, with alluring rich brown eyes and personality akin to one thousand shining stars. But, to Polly's momentary surprise, Tilly had whispered to her during their journey that she had been running with gangs since she was aged just twelve.

Mary-Beth appeared to be the romantic of the group, with a passion for writing that she had bashfully admitted to Polly one night. Though she had chuckled before that she was the perfect criminal, with her lady-like persona and smile that could light up the night, Polly knew that her love for the gang was no front. She had even witnessed the woman offering the O'Driscoll boy a cup of water once. Pale skinned, adorned with freckles and sporting a neat bouffant hairstyle, Mary-Beth Gaskill was beautiful both inside and out.

Karen Jones, however, was a curvaceous blonde who seemed to thrive in the life of an outlaw. Numerous times had Polly found her drinking the night away, and she was by far the most outspoken of the women- bar Miss Grimshaw, that was. She was bold and brash, and appeared unafraid to speak her mind. Something Polly found herself admiring a small amount.

When the creaking wagon rolled across the wooden planks that bridged the railway tracks, Polly leant one arm across the lip of the vehicle and took a deep breath of the air. It smelt of mud, alcohol and produce- and Polly _loved_ it.

"Wooph!" Tilly called out, as she too leant back against the side of the wagon and let her head fall backwards as her eyes closed. She took a deep breath, and chuckled. "Would you smell those sheep!"

Karen chuckled from beside her, arms resting on her thighs. "Or is that Uncle?"

"Oh," Uncle cackled. "Very funny."

Mary-Beth smiled hopefully. "This looks like a decent little town."

Polly bit her lip tightly, deciding to speak up for the first time. "It's nice to finally be out of the camp."

The girls seemed pleased that she had joined in their conversation, yet Polly was distracted as she saw Arthur's ears prick up upon him hearing her words.

"You got that right, for sure," Mary-Beth nudged her. "Look at all that snow on the mountains. Sure don't want to be back up there."

At this point, the wagon was tumbling into the main part of town, having gone past the auction yards and train station. Polly was surprised by the amount of stores such a tiny town had. A small saloon on the right. A couple of store houses and sheds sprinkled around.

"You think we should have asked Molly to come with us?" Tilly asked, sounding guilty.

"Oh no!" Karen scoffed. "Miss O'Shea is far too high and mighty now for the likes of us! Or to do any real work- she's a society lady now!"

The wagon turned left, down the main street. Not a blade of grass remained, years of wagons and horses being dragged down the main street had worn down the ground to nothing but thick, wet mud. Buildings were caked in dried dirt, and beside them pooled together forms of water. Valentine was bustling with activity, men and women alike trudging through the street with activities on their minds. Some stood smoking, leaning against wooden posts. Some brushed the caked mud on their horses. Some yelled to one another as they scratched their heads, sawing planks of wood to add to the buildings support.

On the right was the Sheriff's Office; then the Doctor; then Smithfields Saloon and Worth's General Store. The left side of town was composed of the Gunsmith; then Valentine's very own bank and finally, Saints Hotel.

"Ooh, yes!" Karen chuckled excitedly, rubbing her hands together as she allowed her eyes to wander over the town. "We can get up to some mischief here alright!"

"Just remember, keep a low profile," Arthur warned lowly, his voice thick and gravelly.

"Will you remember that though Arthur?"

A beat of silence. Then Arthur admitted, "Probably not."

He proceeded to lead the wagon around to the stables, and brought it to a slow and creaking stop. One of the stablehands stood working outside threw a quick nod as greeting to the group. The girls jumped up instantly, clutching onto their dresses as one by one they all jumped down from the wagon and landed with a _squish_ in the mud. Polly swallowed, automatically clutching onto the tightness in her stomach. She frowned at her attire, for she was still wearing the scuffed scarlet dress with the ugly tear at her ankles.

Before she could attempt to clutch onto the wagon in order to aid her descent, a throat clearing from just below captured her full attention. Arthur was stood with his hand outstretched, and an impatient aura to his vibrant eyes. Polly's entire body tensed, but she found herself reaching out and sliding her hand into his. His was significantly larger, and her own hand fit snugly within. Calloused and rough from years of thieving and killing, Polly would guess. Hers were smooth from the endless days working behind the scenes. Both Arthur and Polly were criminals in their own sense, though Polly supposed, as she was locked in Arthur's gaze- that he probably assessed his actions with more morality than she did.

A thick swallow tersely clawed at her throat as she leant against Arthur and heavily stepped down into the mud. She muttered a quick, _"Thank you,"_ to which he responded, "'s no problem."

The women were quick to squeal and fumble in excitement, not quite sure where to explore first. After a moment, it was Karen who spoke up. "We'll start at the saloon."

"Mmm, okay," Arthur took a couple of steps away from Polly. "Just stay outta trouble and don't get yourselves noticed."

"Polly?" Mary-Beth asked suddenly, pausing in her tracks as Karen and Tilly skipped away with linked arms. "You want to come with?"

Polly found that her mouth hung open in surprise, and it took her a moment to muster up her response. "Oh no- I need to grab some new bandages. Thank you, though."

"Awh, that's fine," Mary-Beth pulled her lips into a smile, beginning to walk backwards towards the saloon. "You know where we are if you change your mind."

Polly nodded with a tight smile, fiddling with her hands as she watched the girls walk away, laughing, towards Smithfields. Her lips then pursed and she began to stroll away with a sigh, feeling the eyes of Uncle and Arthur watching her the whole time.

It did not take her long to get new bandages, for she barely spoke two words to the man working in the drugstore, and he did not seem particularly interested in conversation himself. With that, she walked out of the store, fingers fiddling with the roll of white material. Her footsteps clattered loudly on the wooden floor, and each step creaked loudly as she made her way over to where she could see Arthur. He was sat cooly on a bench directly outside of the General Store, posture relaxed and arms wrapped around his torso.

As she stared to reduce distance towards the man in question, the door of the general store suddenly swung open, _directly_ into her. Her hands raised quickly in self defence, and the loud clattering of the wood against her palms made her wince as she loudly scolded, _"Ow!"_ , with gritted teeth.

She heard a purring chuckle, and pushed the door closed to spot Arthur's chest softly shaking with laughter, though he tried to hide his expression by tilting his head downwards.

"Oh... uh," Uncle wondered out loud, spinning around lazily to realise that he had managed to hit Polly on his flamboyant exit. "Sorry about that." He paused for a moment, hesitating, before holding out the bottle of bourbon he had clutched in his hand towards Polly as a peace offering.

One of her hands raised in rejection to his offer as she took a seat on Arthur's right, so the old man shrugged and took a _long_ chug of the drink. When he was finished, he held out the drink towards Arthur. "Here's to your good health, my sir," He slurred, afterwards chuckling thickly.

Arthur took the drink, and slowly lifted it to his lips in order to take a small swig. Uncle spun to join Arthur on the bench, but decided to sit in the space that was only about a _foot_ wide- _if that_. Arthur winced, and shot Uncle a glare, moving closer to Polly instinctively.

"It's a funny world," Uncle wondered, staring out at the passers-by. "This time in my career, I pictured myself being married to an heiress."

"That so?" Arthur drawled, though he sounded anything but interested as he handed Uncle back his bottle of bourbon.

"Course," Uncle coughed, before leaning forwards to turn and look towards Polly. "Say, Penny, you're not from round here. How'd you end up in a place like this?"

Polly heard Arthur sigh irritably beside her. He leaned his head back against the building, and pulled down his hat to cover his eyes. "She's called Polly, you idiot," he grumbled.

"Oh..." Uncle appeared dumbfounded for a moment, and Polly lifted a single eyebrow at him. He continued, "Close enough, I guess... so how did you end up here?"

A deep sigh sounded from deep inside of Polly's chest. In her working life, she had learnt that it was just as hard to lie to a fool as it was to lie to a genius. 

As such, when she began to string a vague story, she was tersely aware of Arthur Morgan's _every_ move beside her; and thought to herself that he may be akin to a lone wolf, dangerously studying his prey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐒𝐎, 𝐒𝐎, 𝐒𝐎, 𝐒𝐎, 𝐒𝐎𝐎𝐎𝐎𝐎𝐎 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬. 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐰𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧. 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐮𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐰... 𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐬. 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞'𝐬 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄.
> 
> 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐀𝐥𝐬𝐨, 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟑 𝐢𝐬... 𝐚 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧... 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧... 𝐢𝐧 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐧. 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐒𝐎 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐥𝐲. 𝐏𝐋𝐔𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏𝟐. 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏𝟓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝟏𝟔 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐔𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘'𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐘𝐄𝐓 𝐈-


	12. 𝐎𝐔𝐓, 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐓

𝟏𝟏 | 𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑

𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 was a grossly undermining word to describe what Arthur Morgan was feeling in that moment. He could hear his every footstep, crunching the grass underneath his soles as he marched through the camp. Weaving in and out of tents, circling Pearson's wagon, thundering past the flickering campfire. His jaw tightened, and he brought his hand up to his face to cup his chin. Every coarse hair of his short beard scratched against his palm as he rubbed his jaw, stretching his fingers up to his cheeks in weak attempt to dispel the irking grunt that was about to leave his throat.

It had only been three weeks. _Three weeks_ for the large camp to keep an eye on _one_ woman, and now nobody could find her. It was laughable.

He'd searched her own tent, to no avail. All she had were a couple of books and a closed journal, on top of which sat a pen that Arthur had given her, after being gifted it himself for sparing the life of some idiot called _Jimmy Brooks_. He'd searched _his_ spot at the edge of camp, where she often liked to congregate and get on his last nerve by prodding and pushing at every one of his mannerisms- that was something the two both seemed to have an odd understanding of. How private they both were. The two seemed to be able to read each other like a book.

Arthur knew that she couldn't have been far, for he could see her grand chestnut-coloured Belgian Draft mare, _Tess_ , by her hitching post. Saddle on, chewing absentmindedly at a patch of grass that had grown around the wooden post. After a moment, the horse froze, and Arthur hated to admit that he flinched when she let out a loud sneeze.

In the end, it turned out that Polly had _not_ , in fact, fled the camp in any capacity. After a few minutes of searching, Arthur spotted her figure below. She had slipped down a small pathway towards the pond of fresh water that formed at the foot of Horseshoe Overlook. It was practically tucked into cliff, a small run off from Dakota River where the camp scrubbed their clothes clean. 

A small huff of irritation left Arthur's throat at the incompetence of several of the lazy gang members, and he began to steadily make his way down towards the woman. She was huffing and grunting with effort as she scrubbed away at the scarlet dress she had worn for weeks. In fact, Arthur almost passed her off as Abigail at first, for Polly seemed to have been gifted one of the woman's outfits. It was strange, seeing her outfitted so differently to before- Arthur did think to himself that that crimson dress looked _damn_ expensive. 

If Polly heard his footsteps behind her, she did not flinch or even give him tell. She was on her knees, furiously rubbing together the midsection of her dress. Arthur raised his eyebrows, pulling out a cigarette from his satchel and using the sole of his shoe to light a match. He pulled a long drag, gripping it lightly with his thumb and fingers, before sending out a cloud of smoke and tobacco. "What you doing?" He questioned simply.

Polly's head turned for barely half a moment to acknowledge his presence, before her attention returned to cleaning the garment in front of her. "I'll give you three guesses, _Mendeleev_ ," she drawled sarcastically.

Arthur's eyebrows twisted in an annoyed confusion. He asked, "Who?" thickly.

Her figure paused, and Arthur saw her chest drop with her tired sigh. She turned, and her eyes captured his as she explained, "Dmitri Mendeleev? He formulated the periodic law. Won two awards. Smart bloke."

"I didn't understand a damn word that just came out your mouth," Arthur grunted.

"Well I didn't think you would," she grumbled, turning back to her work. "I'm trying to get this dress clean. Mud and blood isn't the easiest of combinations to remove."

Arthur frowned. "Why don't you just buy something new?"

Though her back was turned, Arthur knew that she was rolling her eyes. The woman strained as she stood and pulled the heavy, waterlogged garment out from the pond. A loud rush of water sounded as she did so, and a steady stream of liquid ran down from the dress and dripped onto the grass in a small pool. It was still wrecked. The torso still retained a tear, and though the fabric was red, Arthur could still make out the dark pool of blood that had crusted and stained. The bottom of the dress was still torn, ragged and uneven, where Polly had removed the strip of fabric to act as an unconventional means to apply pressure to her wound when it was still fresh. 

"My apologies," she grunted lowly, sounding anything but apathetic. "I didn't have time to empty my account at the bank before I ran for my life." Frustratedly, she dropped the dress into a heap on the floor, sighing loudly.

Arthur finished his cigarette, letting it drop into the mud and standing on it to diminish the burning end. He found his hands fumbling with the flap of his satchel, and before he knew it, he was exhaling tightly. It managed to gain her attention, and so Arthur motioned up towards the tree line of camp, where the horses were. "C'mon then."

"What?" She questioned, placing her hands onto her hips.

"I'll..." Arthur grumbled. "Buy you something to wear."

He had to admit that he was more than offended when Polly scoffed loudly. "Not that I don't appreciate the offer, Mr Morgan. But didn't you leave all of your money behind when you fled Blackwater?"

"Well you ain't wrong about that," he explained. He motioned for her to walk with him, which she did after a long moment of hesitation. "I took a bounty in the other day. Some fool hiding up in the cliffs over Dakota River. I've got some spare cash, ain't no trouble."

That was a lie. He'd rather spend his money elsewhere. But, that godforsaken dress _was_ starting to stink.

Polly blinked, ever so slightly taken aback by Arthur's offer. She managed to fall into step with him, though kept a short distance. He could feel her eyes watching him. Analysing him. 

"Thank you," she breathed, eventually. "I'll pay you back someday."

Arthur chuckled. "I'm sure you will."

The two wordlessly made their way over to the hitching post, with Tess' ears leaping up in excitement at seeing Polly. The British woman laughed, a sweet melody of spring, as she scratched behind the ears of her draft horse and took hold of her reins. Before Arthur could offer her a hand, Polly had already started to mount the saddle. A groan left her lips as she did so, and it took her a fair bit of effort to swing her opposite leg over. Her stomach muscles hadn't been used for a while, after all.

Her eyes followed Arthur as he walked over towards his horse- his new horse. A few days previously, after a week or so of mulling over his own thoughts, Arthur had made the decision to sell the stallion he had taken from Adler Ranch. Much of the final conclusion had been prodded by Hosea, with Arthur agreeing that he needed a bigger horse.

"When did you get him? He's beautiful," Polly commented, looking over the figure of Arthur's new horse. 

Morgan grunted in mild strain as he somewhat effortlessly pulled himself onto the back of his great war horse. He clicked his tongue, urging his new stallion onwards to fall into step with Tess and Polly up ahead, who had started to slowly trot through the trees and out of camp. Arthur patted his animal's neck fondly with a chuckle. "Got him a couple'a days ago. Other one wasn't doin' it for me."

Polly snorted under her breath. "And have you given this one a name, at least?"

The two emerged from the trees and into the Heartlands, faintly aware of the hissing engine of the train coming upon them in the distance. It was the far end of the afternoon, and the sun was hidden by a veil of unsaturated clouds. Dull, as far as weather came. Arthur supposed it may rain in the coming hours.

It took him a while to answer, still slightly sheepish about the name he had given his horse. But when Polly's gaze did not waver from his figure, swaying back and forth as the stallion moved onwards, Arthur realised that he couldn't just simply ignore her.

"Fred," he grumbled, staring into the distance.

He waited for her to laugh, or make fun of his decision. But upon hearing no response, his eyes wandered towards her to find there was nothing but a faint smile lighting her features. She met his eyes again and spoke, "That's a lovely name, actually. I had an uncle called Fred once."

Arthur frowned. "Had?" he questioned, though he soon after regretted prying.

"Pneumonia," Polly explained, unbothered by his borderline invasive question. She changed the subject quickly. "War horse huh? What breed is he?"

"Ardennes," Arthur told her. His eyes wandered downwards again as he fondly patted Fred's neck. His coat was a shining grey roan, sleek and silver, with a mane of charcoal black. _"You're alrigh' boy,"_ Arthur comforted as the train applied its breaks with a harsh screech, and Fred whined in fright. Morgan swore he saw Tess huff proudly from her nose.

The two rode in comfortable silence into Valentine. This time, they were not accompanied by the hollering tunes of Karen, Tilly and Mary-Beth. Nor the anger-inducing drunken slurs of Uncle. Yes, Arthur may have found himself in a constant state of irritation when around Polly Barrett, but she _sure_ as hell was better company than at least half of the gang.

"So, where abouts in England you from?" Arthur mused, his voice thick and low.

"Oh, uh," Polly groaned slightly, and Arthur felt a little bad for asking. But she continued nonetheless. "Just outside London. You know where London is cowboy?"

"'Course, 's in England," Arthur quipped.

The laugh that escaped her mouth was deliberately forced and lacking of energy, a display that she did not find Arthur's words very funny. "You _are_ a comedian, Arthur Morgan."

It was strange hearing his own name rolling from the tongue of a pristine British accent. It was an elegant sound, and Arthur wasn't quite sure if he liked it or not. 

"What about you? Surely you've done your fair share of travelling. Where were you born?" Polly questioned, tilting her head as she looked towards him curiously. 

Arthur frowned at her question, a tightness forming in his chest as he automatically sat up straighter. He was acutely aware of the activities of the bustling town of Valentine they had strolled into. A distant hammering of metal from down near the stables beat in a steady thump. Polly Barrett had another thing coming if she thought she knew him. Arthur grunted, mentally keeping her at arms length. "Don't know, if m'honest," he mumbled. "Moved about even with my mother and father."

As the two led their horses over to the hitching post outside of the general store, Arthur could feel Polly's eyes watching his soul. He was starting to get frustrated by her presence, now. With that, he leapt down from Fred, landing with a firm grunt as his worn ropers sunk slightly into the mud. "Here," he grumbled, holding out a thin wad of cash towards Polly. "Buy yourself something pretty." His words were meant to be slightly patronising, and he knew she'd recieved them that way upon her light glare in his direction.

Her hand fell into his like dead weight, and Arthur was slightly taken aback for a second until he realised that she was only taking the money from him. He almost rolled his eyes at how soft and unworked her hands were, probably having never seen hard labour in her life.

"Thank you," she muttered tautly. "Really."

Arthur kept his expression stoic as he nodded tightly, sliding his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers. "I'm going to join Javier and Charles in the saloon, you can come n'join us when you're done."

Polly frowned, but it was not in sadness, for her eyebrows raised and mulled over his words. "Sure, Charles is one of the only decent blokes I've met in your gang."

 _"The hell's a bloke?"_ Arthur asked, his face morphing into a strange confusion. The word sounded wrong in his lazy southern drawl.

Polly rolled her eyes and proceeded to taunt his accent as she spoke, "Sorry, mister. A _feller_."

It took all Arthur's might not to punch her as his eyes followed her figure into the general store.

***

𝟏𝟏 | 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘

𝐈𝐓 didn't take Polly so long to find a reasonably priced shirt and skirt, for long gone were the days of her gliding through Blackwater in expensive gowns, fooling mindless men. She folded the material together in her arms, sliding the shopkeeper the appropriate funds and smiling when she realised that she had money left over. Part of her wanted to spend the rest, to purchase food for Tess (who Polly still felt guilty about leading into the mountains). But ultimately, she groaned upon deciding to hand the money back to Morgan.

She muttered a quick and polite _'thank you'_ to the man behind the counter, who replied with _'see you later, Miss'_ , as she pushed open the door with her behind. Polly huffed as a section of hair fell in front of her face, and she blew it away frustratedly. Her hands worked to fold the plain outfit tightly, and she hastily stuffed it into Tess' saddle bag with a grunt. She muttered under her breath that she needed to invest in a bigger saddle bag.

" _Good grief!_ Polly Barrett, is that you?" A triumphant voice sounded loudly behind her. 

There was an instant where her heart clawed into her throat, and a violent chill struck through her bones. A moment where she had chastised how _foolish_ she could have been for so openly parading in a small town. The possibility of her being found by the Pinkertons, or by _him_ , made her shake in fear.

But, then, she realised the voice was British.

She spun quickly, and spotted a familiar face with a flashing white smile and outstretched arms. On his head, he wore an expensive black top-hat, and he was clothed in a fine suit with a regal sapphire waistcoat and dove-white cotton gloves. Polly laughed loudly in disbelief, suddenly feeling awfully underdressed compared to the eccentric nature of the man before her. 

"Josiah Trelawny," she breathed. "I never thought I'd see you again!"

"What brings you here?" He chuckled, though he soon after removed his hat from his head and held it in front of him. "And... my apologies, dear girl. For what happened."

"It was a long time ago," she quipped, swiftly cutting off their conversation there and then. "Turns out I've managed to get myself involved with your... folks."

Trelawny nodded slowly, his mouth forming a small _o_ in realisation. Josiah Trelawny and Polly Barrett were self-serving, high-class hucksters. Both had known one another for around a decade, and had a strict code of conduct they both swore to uphold. No questions. An eye for an eye. Both held secrets of the other and in the criminal underworld, secrets were a dirty and effective form of both blackmail and payment.

"I see you've met Mr Trelawny, my dear," the charismatic and charming voice of Dutch van der Linde appeared from the direction of the stables, a devilish smile appearing on his face. He had to speak up ever so slightly, for there was a large crowd forming around the outside of the saloon shouting and jeering as two men began to throw punches at one another.

"Ah," Trelawny began to spin his web. "It happens that we've crossed paths before, my friend. Through minor business in Blackwater."

Trelawny met her eyes, and Polly sent him a grateful smile. By brushing off a previous encounter, it saved the two from slipping up in the future. Trelawny had known her since she was aged just sixteen, and she was comparable to a niece for him. He always tended to have her best interests at heart, despite his own self-fulfilling nature.

Dutch's thick eyebrows twitched, a brief moment of suspicion that he quickly covered up, slapping his hands together loudly and chuckling. "Excellent, excellent."

A loud grunt and a variety of cheers from outside of the saloon was enough to alter Polly's attention. She squinted her eyes in disbelief as she spotted a figure, coated in mud and bruises, stumble out of the centre of the crowd. _"Is that..."_ she wondered out loud.

Trelawny chuckled loudly from beside her, then yelled out, "Making new friends again I see, Arthur."

Arthur looked worn out and tired, his chest rising and falling with labouring breaths. His eyes wandered over to Polly's for a moment, and she raised a single eyebrow at him, resisting the ever so slight urge to laugh.

Dutch began to walk towards Morgan, with Josiah and Polly on his tail. The gang leader held out his arm to help Polly up the worn wooden stairs to where Arthur was stood with his back now resting against the wall of the general store.

"Look who we found sniffing about," Dutch exclaimed, gesturing towards Trelawny who proceeded to perform an extravagant bow.

"Well, well," Arthur drawled. "I thought you'd gone to New York?"

"And miss all this glamour?" Trelawny snorted. "You must be joking."

Polly frowned as Arthur unevenly pushed himself away from the wall and placed one hand against his cheekbone to soothe the pain of what she assumed had been a harsh blow. "How are you?" He asked.

"Well. Quite well indeed. I went to Blackwater looking for you gentlemen; you're not very popular it seems- ah! Javier and Charles! I've missed you. And Bill, looking well as can be!" Trelawny exclaimed.

Polly leant against a wooden support beam and feeling a brush against her ankle, looked down to notice Arthur had painstakingly lowered himself to sit on the wooden steps. Javier, the charming Mexican man who had gifted Polly his poncho several weeks back strolled lackadaisically over towards the group. Just behind him was Charles, who sent Polly a kind smile and Bill, who grumpily stomped behind them.

"Gentlemen!" Trelawny proclaimed, arms stretched out by his sides. "Always a pleasure!"

Dutch spoke up, "You're right, we ain't too popular in Blackwater."

"I'll vouch," Polly joined, gaining the attention of all the men around her. "Not even a day and the town was covered in your's and Hosea's wanted posters."

Arthur huffed. "We left a lot of money there."

"And young Sean it seems..." Josiah leant down to reveal.

"Sean?" Dutch said dumbfoundedly, in disbelief. "You found him?"

"Yes, I have. He's being held by some bounty hunters, trying to see how much money the government will pay them. I know he's in Blackwater- but there's talk of them leaving."

An odd twisting feeling materialised in the bottom of Polly's stomach at the implied suggestion. She wanted to avoid Blackwater. Being stuck in the Van der Linde gang was her both her escape and her imprisonment, and now there was talk of going _back_ there.

"Well, if we step foot in Blackwater..." Arthur voiced her exact words out loud. He groaned in pain, clenching his jaw with his hand, before spitting down at the floor. Polly winced upon seeing a small amount of blood land on the ground. "... well then we're dead men for sure."

Dutch grunted. "Well, there'll be Pinkertons all over the place... but if he's alive we gotta try"

"Yeah, yeah. Of course," Arthur shook his head, not for a second disagreeing with Dutch's words.

There was a beat of silence. Then, Polly looked up towards Dutch. "It's you they're after..."

The gang leader narrowed his eyes, letting his arms rest at his sides. He looked the epitome of power in that moment of time, adorned in a rich, obsidian-black tailored suit with golden chains draped across his waistcoat. Polly could see why the gang followed him. She frowned remembering what Hosea had mentioned weeks before- _Arthur had been in this gang since he was only thirteen_.

Dutch's voice was predatory. "Always is. Charles, go find out what you can- carefully. Josiah, take Javier. And Arthur..." 

Van der Linde's eyes briefly wandered over to Polly, eliciting a frown from her.

"Go get yourself cleaned up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𝐒𝐨, 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝟏𝟎𝟎% 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡. 𝐈 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟖.
> 
> 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 -_-
> 
> 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐇 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐝
> 
> 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫- 𝐬𝐨 𝐈'𝐦 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐛𝐞... 𝐚𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬. 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟𝐟, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐥


	13. 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐇

𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘

𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐍 MacGuire was possibly one of the most eccentric and joyous men that Polly had the... _pleasure_ to meet. And it didn't take her long to deduce as such.

After Trelawny's observations of Blackwater bringing to light that one of the missing gang members was in fact alive, Dutch had wasted no time in sending out his men to try and retrieve him. A large part of Polly was equally as impressed as she was intimidated, for Dutch van der Linde commanded such a tight knit group of outlaws that seemed to have complete faith in him. Of course, she had heard the odd doubt voiced out loud, most often from Hosea who seemed to be fuelled by concern. But with his charismatic, entrancing smile, Dutch could sway anybody to his side with his boasts of optimistic opportunity.

Trelawny, accompanied with Arthur, Charles and Javier, had set out at the day's morning. Not long after the sun started to rise, colouring the sky with a warm orange glow, the group of men had left camp to head down towards Blackwater, showered with hopes of safety and good luck. Polly had even stood in front of the four men before they left, giving them as much information and advice she could spare about the state of Blackwater. The patrols, the state of lockdown. Not to mention that the law had taken to hiring private bounty hunters to scour the lands and forests around the town.

The day felt long- one of the longest since Polly had settled in to Horseshoe Overlook. She tried to keep herself busy; scribbling in her journal with the fountain pen Arthur had given her; helping Pearson with preparing a deer for the stew- hell, she'd even taken to offering to wash other people's clothes. Anything to keep herself busy as a futile attempt in stopping her mind from wandering to possibilities of capture, or worse.

Truth be told, she wasn't in the slightest worried about Trelawny. In the decade she had known him, he proved himself to be quite the swindler. He was almost akin to a ghost, able to cut ties and form proof from thin air as a way to erase his footsteps. Untraceable. A complete mystery. He had managed to teach Polly quite a lot, and he was possibly the very reason she was able to hide in Blackwater for so long- in _plain_ sight.

Charles and Javier, well, Polly would consider them friends. Back in Colter, Javier had kindly allowed Polly to use his poncho when she was shivering from the bitter frost. They had only exchanged a few meagre words since, but he was more inclined to talk to her than most of the camp. Charles was very kind, and an image of peace. Though, he was also built like a bison, and there was no doubt in Polly's mind that he would often be brought to tough measures in dire situations. 

In fact, it was only during the first week at camp that Polly noticed Charles' aptitude for the hunt, often finding him sat whittling new arrows on a log by the scout fire in the early hours of the morning. It was after a few days of contemplation that Polly lowered herself onto an adjacent log, and offered out to him her crafted ornate bow from her office. She had taken it for protection the day she had left Blackwater, and with her still-healing gunshot wound throbbing in her abdomen, she figured he would make much better use of it than she. It took a lot of convincing and in the end, Charles only agreed to use the weapon whilst she was healing. Even when Polly muttered that she was a pretty _rubbish_ shot, Charles merely grunted and said he'd teach her himself when she was in better health.

As for Arthur, well... Polly could not quite define their relationship. Sure, they gave each other the pleasure of being graced with one another's presence more often than they both maybe wanted to- but it wasn't as if she didn't like the man. In fact, she'd probably unwittingly spent the most time with him out of everyone. He was irritatingly impassive, frustratingly brooding and appeared to have no qualms about resorting to violence... a _lot_. But he was more similar to Polly than he'd possibly care to admit. Both had built a tough demeanour stemming from imprisoned childhoods- but in completely opposite ways. He had grown up largely without parents, having been running with Dutch and Hosea since the age of thirteen. Polly had grown up under the invasive eyes of her upper-class mother and father, forced into a life of order and discipline. They irritated the living hell out of one another, but there was an odd sort of comfort they found in each other's presence that made them gravitate towards one another- even if neither would admit it.

Suffice to say, when the afternoon sun steadily shrunk below the horizon and brought the evening chill, the entire camp started to become itchy in anxiousness. The small group finally returned when the time had just gone eight, and Polly had wasted no time in throwing away her shitty coffee and joining the rest of the gang who had gathered in whoops and hollers at the return of the infamous Sean MacGuire.

The instant he had burst into camp, striking red hair spiking wildly from his unshaven, dirty mug, he had downed three bottles of beer and produced an _almighty_ burp. After a nasty curse exclaiming that the beer _wasn't like they made it in_ _'the motherland'_ , Sean removed his blue bowler hat with a screech and threw it with all his might across camp. It seemed as if he regretted it the moment it left his grasp, for he immediately chased after it, stumbling over his own feet. Whether from exhaustion or tipsiness, Polly did not quite know. All she could do was watch him, mouth agape at his extreme celebrations that were only spurred on with the squealing girls. He sprinted across camp and leapt up onto a tree stump, with most of the gang following him in doing so. She was faintly aware of Arthur's large, muscular figure coming to a stop nearby her.

She turned slowly with folded arms, meeting Arthur's gaze and communicating solely through her eyebrows the question of: _really?_

Understanding what she was asking in the solemn silence, Arthur sighed with a scoff and simply shrugged his shoulders. Polly nodded _very_ slowly in response.

"Arthur! Oh Arthur!" Dutch stomped joyfully out of his test, cigar in hand with a wide smile. He noticed Polly lingering near him and gestured towards her in captivating enthusiasm. "And our own Miss Barrett, too!"

"Hmm, you seem in a good mood," Arthur pointed out, sliding his thumbs into his belt loops.

"I am, son. I am," Dutch chuckled, arms outspread as if to invite witness to his camp. "Let's have some fun- tonight. Let's... enjoy ourselves."

A quick glance at his form told Polly that Arthur was skeptical with his reply. "We having a party?"

"Maybe," Dutch teased. "Just a little one."

Polly wearily met Arthur's gaze, but if he understood her apprehension, he did not acknowledge it. He threw out his arms and exclaimed, "Great."

Dutch began to laugh sardonically, turning and strolling over to where the gang was gathered around Sean. "Mr MacGuire is back! So, come on... let's have ourselves a party!"

It appeared, however, that Sean had already started his own party. He was dangerously teetering on the edge of the tree stump, bottle of alcohol in hand as he joyously rambled without thought. 

Much of the gang had gathered around him, yet not many were listening, opting to hover at nearby tables and roll their eyes at his actions. Arthur had moved away to join Hosea, Bill and Javier over at one of the tables, the latter of whom was strumming mindlessly on his guitar a simple tune that Polly did not know.

"And don't you worry Mr Pearson- you drunk old'e shit bag!" Sean exclaimed, thick Irish accent contributing so heavily to his drunken slurs that even Polly could hardly understand him. "It'll be nut'in but, uh... the finest game in the pot, now _Dead Eye MacGuire's_ back!"

Polly, from her awkward loiter at distance, was still not far enough to miss the low grunt that erupted from Pearson's chest as he shook his head. Whether in irritation or humour, Polly did not quite know.

"I love all you _bastards_!" Sean grinned manically, swaying from side to side on the tree stump. "Have fun! Have _lots_ of fun!"

The girls whooped and cheered, squealing words of sarcastic encouragement to Sean as he attempted to climb down from the tree stump. Polly absolutely could not control the laugh that sounded from her throat, albeit amused when the drunk Irishman miscalculated the ground level and fell flat onto his face in a heap. He didn't seem bothered at all, taking the incident as something rather enjoyable as he chuckled in excitement and shakily pushed himself onto his feet.

Then, with a raised eyebrow, Polly stood still in amusement as Sean began to stumble in her direction. Upon spotting her, he sent an enthusiastic wave, then took one more drink from his bottle before stopping _dead_ in his tracks.

"Now hold on a mo'..." Sean pondered, slowly turning to stare with puzzled disposition towards Polly, who could no nothing but fold her arms and chuckle nervously. Red hair dishevelled as he ran one hand through it, Sean squinted his eyes in attempt to see her clearer. "Who on earth are you? And why haven't I met'cha sooner?"

"Ah!" Dutch interrupted, walking towards Sean and setting a firm hand on his shoulder. "This is the newest addition to the group-"

"Polly Barrett," Polly spoke, edging in front of Dutch's line of speech. 

Upon hearing her accent, Sean's face fell into a strange sensual pleasure. "Oh, on King Arthur's bollocks, finally someone I can understand!" He stared upon her with a strange wonder, eliciting a harsh monotone laugh from Karen, who stood and marched over to the small gathering.

"The hell you on about you Irish bastard?" Karen slurred with a smile. "We already got Miss O'Shea and Trelawny from across the pond."

"Aye, but _Molly_ _O'Shea_ is too _fancy_ for the likes o' me and _Trelawny's_ got a _shockin_ ' pair of tits on 'im. Us Irish got to stick together!" Sean projected, holding his drink up high into the night sky.

Polly cleared her throat. "Well I'm actually English-"

Sean groaned. "Yeah.. it'll do."

Noticing that Karen was beginning to get... _close_ to Sean, Polly started to desperately scour the camp for somewhere else to go. Most of the boys had gathered around the fire, listening to Bill's tall chortling tales (which sounded slightly fabricated from what Polly could hear). From inside of Dutch's tent played a tune from the ornate gramophone. Van der Linde himself was dancing close with the redheaded Northern Irish woman- Molly O'Shea, who was dressed in a regal emerald gown. Polly felt odd looking towards her, for she reminded her of a life long passed. Beside them were the laughing figures of Mary-Beth and Arthur, who had taken a much more silly approach to their dance than the sensual slow movements of their gang leader. Polly huffed, almost admitting defeat when she finally spotted the figure of Abigail Roberts towards the back of the camp.

Polly wasted no time in gliding her way over, yet she still moved cautiously. She was vaguely aware of the figure of John Marston through the tree line, keeping watch. Her footsteps were softened by the dirt that lay underneath the dried grass, yet there was still a dewy residue from the rain a few nights ago. In her stomach was a nervous feeling that she couldn't seem to shake, for she had mostly avoided Abigail and Jack up until this point.

"Polly!" appeared the small but enthusiastic little voice of Jack Marston, who instantly leapt up from his mother's lap upon seeing the English woman approaching. Polly let out a small humph as he collided with her front, hitting his head against her stomach.

"Jack- Jack, baby be careful!" Abigail muttered in a small fluster, aware of the still healing gunshot wound. She peeled Jack away and lifted him effortlessly, resting his weight against her hip. Her eyes met Polly's happily, and Polly could see the tiredness to her form. "How _is_ the wound?" Abigail asked in curiosity, grimacing as she motioned towards Polly's abdomen.

"Oh," Polly waved her off easily. "Just sore now. Only hurts if I stretch... or if little boys run into it." She said the last part with a little chuckle towards Jack, who sheepishly buried his head into his mother's shoulder.

The two women wandered towards the outskirts of camp, settling by a large rock that overlooked the landscape. The glittering stars sprinkled across the sky bore a distant white glow, but did little to quell the shadows of the imposing mountains of Ambarino in the distance. Down below, across the Dakota river, reflections of light danced across the surface.

"I'm sorry for not coming to talk to you earlier, Polly. Don't think for a second that I don't appreciate everything you put yourself through to get my son back to me," Abigail's voice cracked as she watched Jack sit cross-legged on the ground at her feet, enthusiastically picking at the small flowers around him. "I just... don't think I wanted to hear it. Not so soon after I had got him back. But... I'd like to know what happened, now. If that's okay?"

"I..." Polly could not help the hesitation in her voice. Truthfully, a large part of her was still confused about her _own_ intentions in choosing to find the Van der Linde gang. She wanted to make no mistake of lingering over Abigail's words for too long, and so she took a breath to explain the story in her simplest terms. "I was in my office above Blackwater at the time of the... massacre. Just, sorting through some papers. It was quiet, and then it wasn't. Just, suddenly, there was gunfire. So much gunfire, and shouting, and explosives. It didn't take long to figure out what was happening, and so I was selfish. I took advantage of it, to get away from there..."

Abigail was clinging onto her every word intently. Her hands moved to tuck the wild tendrils of dark hair that had fallen out of her twisted updo back into place. Polly had a feeling she was only fiddling with her hair to give her hands something to do.

"I left my office. My intention was to just... find Tess, and leave. But I heard something, down an alleyway. Something, I- I don't know exactly what, but something told me to stop. To find out what it was. And that's when I found Jack."

"Oh... my baby," Abigail held out her hand to motion Jack towards her, and Polly watched on sadly. "I don't- I just remember him being at camp one moment, and the next... he was gone. I can't remember a time I've been so frightened in my life."

Polly felt awful. Not just for Abigail, but _in_ herself. She supposed she could not fully grasp Abigail's feelings, for she herself was not a mother. But all Polly Barrett knew was that returning Jack to his mother was not the act of a good samaritan. It was the act of a villain, desperately grasping for reconciliation in death. A claw at redemption for a life of selfishness and scum. 

"Jack is with you now, Abigail," Polly encouraged, setting a soft hand on the woman's shoulder. "That's all that matters."

Truly, Polly felt so deeply disappointed in her own morality that she could hardly bear to look at Abigail any longer. It was just her luck that, in that moment, John Marston strolled back into camp towards the two, repeater loosely held in one hand by his side.

"Well, I'm just about done out there now," John grumbled, voice like gravel. Clearly, he wanted to join the boys by the fire. "I'm going to find someone to-"

"I'll keep watch," Polly found herself saying, leaning around Abigail to make eye contact with Marston. 

He paused in his tracks for a moment. "You sure?"

Polly nodded quickly. "Positive."

There was a moment of silence and hesitation as John lingered close to the two, but ultimately his desire to have a drink was much larger than his will to participate in an argument. He shrugged. "Well, here you go then," he grunted, holding out the repeater towards Polly. She stood quickly from her spot beside Abigail and walked quickly to meet John halfway, taking the gun from his grasp.

Wordlessly, she began to make her way over to the tree line, but paused in her tracks for a moment to look back towards Roberts and Marston. "Sorry, Abigail? John?" she garnered for their attention.

"Yeah?" Abigail piped up, standing from her position sat on the rock with her hand tightly wrapped around Jack's.

"I'd avoid your tent," Polly admitted awkwardly, and only decided to elaborate upon seeing the confused expression on both of their faces. "I think Karen and Sean are having... a _tiff_ in there." It was clear from the furrowed eyebrows that they did not quite grasp her Victorian slang. Polly sighed, willing herself to think past how foolish she looked as she quickly and subtly thrust her hips forwards to convey her meaning.

"Oh- God!" Abigail laughed, beginning to steer Jack in a direction opposite the tent in question. "Thanks, Polly."

A sigh brushed past her lips as Polly wordlessly made her way over to the tree line and was instantly swallowed by the rhythm of the forest. The canopy of thick leaves did wonders to absorb the dense air of fire and celebrations, and Polly had to admit that she felt a great deal relaxed being plunged into a blue darkness. There was absolutely nothing amiss, as the night breeze danced across the floor and rustled the grass and bushes. A couple of birds were tweeting from up above, in the tree branches, but they told of nighttime lullabies most of all. She rested her back against a tree, closing her eyes and allowing herself to fall victim to the serenity. But it didn't last very long, to her most humble irritation.

"What'chu doing out here?" Arthur asked, slowly walking forwards and watching her with tilted head. His large hands were wrapped lazily around a rifle, and he had opted to part with his signature gambler's hat.

Polly huffed at her moment being destroyed. "Took over from John," she explained simply, turning her head and closing her eyes once more as she decided to slide down the tree and sit on the floor. "Think he wanted a drink."

"Mmm, doesn't surprise me," Arthur mumbled, a tone of distaste clear that he was unable to hide. Polly decided not to press him further. Perhaps she would make him explain his tense relationship with Marston another day.

"I see Sean is having fun," Polly noted with a smile.

She heard Arthur's faint chuckle from nearby. "Sure is. Regret helping him now, kid doesn't know when to shut up."

Polly's smile remained for a few moments longer, before it slowly faded. Suddenly, she had a nagging thought at the back of her mind. "Hey, Arthur?"

"Hmm?"

"You haven't heard from the kid have you? Lenny?" Her eyes opened and she turned to watch Arthur, realising that he was a lot closer than she had first anticipated. Even shrouded in the cold blue of the night sky, he held onto a sense of warmth. He appeared stumped for a moment, his mouth opening subtly as he thought over his response.

"Nah," he shrugged. "M'sure the kid's fine though."

"Well he's been gone for weeks," Polly pointed out.

Arthur scoffed lightly. "Why you care so much? You hardly know him."

"Firstly, he was a nice kid. Secondly, Dutch told them to go check out Strawberry. And you heard me, Arthur, you _know_ what I said. There's a fair few bounty hunters in that area. I know they're not necessarily looking for Lenny and... the other guy-"

"-Micah," Arthur spat tersely.

"Yeah, him. But it doesn't mean they're both going to be safe." Polly hated herself for how selfless her words appeared. She was more worried about the law tracing Lenny and Micah back to _her_ than she was about the law catching _them_ to begin with.

Arthur grumbled, "Well I don't much care if Micah is safe or not..." Upon noticing the raised eyebrow Polly had sent him, he raised up his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay! Look, if they're not back in three days I'll go look for them myself. Happy?"

Polly grunted, folding her arms to the tune of Arthur's irritated sigh and resting her head back against the tree trunk as her eyes closed softly. She just wanted to spend the rest of the night in a peaceful bubble of serenity, without hearing any of the gang squealing and laughing. For she didn't quite fit in yet.

It turned out that Arthur wanted the same, for the two fell into a comfortable silence as they listened to the song of the forest. One of the last things Polly was acutely aware of was Arthur's footsteps crunching the dirt and twigs beside her, before he too lowered himself onto the ground and sat with his back against the tree. 

A small part of her wanted to shove him away. A bigger part simply couldn't be arsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𝐈'𝐌 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓 𝐃;𝐅𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐛𝐠𝐚𝐨𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐎𝐁𝐅
> 
> 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐋𝐮𝐤𝐞 𝐒𝐤𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰. 𝐏𝐥𝐮𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭.
> 
> 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐆𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 *𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓* 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐍 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐈'𝐌 𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘'𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐇- 𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘- 𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐆𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘


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